Seven Tears into the Sea by Terri Farley Page A

VW yesterday and started up Nana’s porch, I’d wanted to go to the cove. When I saw the wet footprint on my porch, I wanted to go to the cove. When I breathed the salt air this morning, I wanted to go. No big deal, except it wasn’t an ordinary “want.”
    It was as if I were falling. A rare gravity pulled me to the cove.
    I heard the gentle morning
arfs
of mother sea lions caring for their pups.
    The trail twisted like a spiral staircase. With each step the sounds became clearer, but a stone arch blocked my view. I saw the cove in my memory, though: a tiny beach studded with rocks next to a grotto full of swaying green light.
    Before, I hadn’t been allowed to go there for fear the tide would come in and trap me.
    The cove’s sand was pink with dawn, and it was hard to tell the difference between sea lions and rocks.
    Their “arfs” grew louder, but they weren’t really afraid. Glistening silver, black, and dark mink brown, the mothers edged their pups away from me.
    Trying to be inconspicuous, I sat on a boulder facing them, with my back to the grotto.
    I loved watching the sea lions move. They’re not like seals, which drag themselves along by front flippers. Sea lions really walk like lions. Actually more like dogs. They get up and use all four of their flippers.
    There were about a dozen mothers with babies. The cove was shallow and warm. Pups paddled around, learning to swim. They were so cute you wanted to hug them, to nuzzle your face into their plush fur, but you’d be taking a real chance.
    Sea lions are a protected species, and they rarely hurt anything unequipped with gills. Walk too close, and they’ll launch into the cove and swim away. Usually.
    The bulls were exceptions.
    For as long as I can remember, Nana has called every big male sea lion who’s protected the cove “Bull.” This summer’s Bull must be out for a swim, but I stayed alert. Those big males weighed hundreds of pounds and flashed terrifying teeth.
    Nana has a gruesome picture of a guest who tried to pet one. She makes people who express an interest in visiting the cove look at it. After that, most stay away.
    Behind me I heard footsteps in the water.
    Slowly I turned my gaze from the sea lions, and I saw him. Sun glistening on water can make you see things that aren’t there. But he was only a few yards away.
    He sat on a flat rock just outside the grotto.
    My gaze swept the cove, trying to make sense of the fact that he hadn’t been there just a minute ago. Okay, so I’d been sort of hypnotized by the beach, but why hadn’t the sea lions reacted to his approach?
    Maybe he speaks their language,
I teased myself. After all, in those old legends, selkies ruled as princes among the sea lions.
    He was handsome enough to be a selkie. That’s for sure.
    His cut-off jeans were drenched. He had the blackest hair I’d ever seen. His bare feet reminded me of sculpture, and the corners of his eyes tilted. He wasn’t Asian,I didn’t think, but he could be Italian or Greek. His nose might have been broken once.
    The details quit coming when he moved.
    He leaned back on arms braced behind him. He wore a lazy smile, and he was totally immersed in sunning himself. It was a good thing his eyes were closed, because I couldn’t stop staring.
    His sun tan was gold and so smooth, he might have been wearing fresh skin. I wanted to skim my fingers along that dip where his neck turned into shoulder.
    What?
Why was I thinking about touching a stranger?
    I tucked my fingers into my palms and locked my fists with my thumbs.
    â€œYou never called,” he said, and then he opened his eyes.
    I drew a deep breath. In my mind, bells clanged like they do when the merry-go-round stops and you have to dismount from a purple horse. Fantasy over.
    â€œThat would be because we’ve never met,” I told him.
    He looked astonished. “You don’t