Dear John by Nicholas Sparks

all night.”
    “I’m sure she could have handled it.”
    “You’re probably right. But I get the feeling that some of these guys are pretty persistent.”
    “Of course they are. They’re guys.”
    He laughed. “I guess you’re right.” He motioned toward the window. “Which way now?”
    I directed him through a series of turns, then finally I told him to slow the car. He stopped in front of the house, where I could see the light from my dad’s den, glowing yellow.
    “Thanks for the ride,” I said, opening my door.
    “No problem.” He leaned over the seat. “And listen, like I said, feel free to stop by the house anytime. We work during the week, but weekends and evenings are usually clear.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind,” I promised.
    Once inside, I went to my dad’s den and opened the door. He was peering at the
Greysheet
and jumped. I realized he hadn’t heard me come in.
    “Sorry,” I said, taking a seat on the single step that separated the den from the rest of the house. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
    “It’s okay,” was all he said. He debated whether to set aside the
Greysheet,
then did.
    “The waves were great today,” I commented. “I’d almost forgotten how fantastic the water feels.”
    He smiled but again said nothing. I shifted slightly on the step. “How’d work go?” I asked.
    “The same,” he said.
    He lapsed back into his own thoughts, and all I could think was that the same thing could be said about our conversations.

Three
    S urfing is a solitary sport, one in which long stretches of boredom are interspersed with frantic activity, and it teaches you to flow with nature, instead of fighting it . . . it’s about getting in the zone. That’s what the surfing magazines say, anyway, and I mostly agree. There’s nothing quite as exciting as catching a wave and living within a wall of water as it rolls toward shore. But I’m not like a lot of those dudes with freeze-dried skin and stringy hair who do it all day, every day, because they think it’s the be-all and end-all of existence. It isn’t. For me, it’s more about the fact that the world is crazy noisy almost all the time, and when you’re out there, it’s not. You’re able to hear yourself think.”
    This is what I was telling Savannah, anyway, as we made our way toward the ocean early Sunday morning. At least, that’s what I thought I was saying. For the most part, I was just sort of rambling, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that I really liked the way she looked in a bikini.
    “Like horseback riding,” she said.
    “Huh?”
    “Hearing yourself think. That’s why I like riding, too.”
    I’d shown up a few minutes earlier. The best waves were usually early in the morning, and it was one of those clear, blue-sky days portending heat that meant the beach would be packed again. Savannah had been sitting on the steps out back, wrapped in a towel, the remains of the bonfire before her. Despite the fact that the party had no doubt gone on for hours after I’d left, there wasn’t a single empty can or piece of trash anywhere. My impression of the group improved a bit.
    Despite the hour, the air was already warm. We spent a few minutes in the sand near the water’s edge going over the basics of surfing, and I explained how to pop up on the board. When Savannah thought she was ready, I waded in carrying the board, walking beside her.
    There were only a few surfers out, the same ones I’d seen the day before. I was trying to figure out the best place to bring Savannah so she’d have enough room when I realized I could no longer see her.
    “Hold on, hold on!” she shouted from behind me. “Stop, stop . . .”
    I turned. Savannah was on her tiptoes as the first splashes of water hit her belly, and her upper body was immediately covered in gooseflesh. She appeared to be trying to lift herself from the water.
    “Let me get used to this. . . .” She gave a few quick, audible gasps and crossed