by Amy Waeschle
Cassidy took a deep breath and drank in the cool, fresh wind. So her hunch was correct: it was about a girl.
Four
Cassidy noticed the square block of pale chalk that seemed to glow in the distance—Witch’s Rock, or Roca Bruja. The giant rock looked almost lit from within, like something from outer space. Closer and closer it came until they entered the wide bay. Bruce slowed the boat, and everyone on board stood at attention to watch the waves, which broke over sand bars created by the river tumbling out of the jungle.
Bruce pulled the boat closer, and all eyes remained glued to the beach as deep-water swells lifted the boat then surged on, breaking in a loud boom. The surfers in the bow started whistling, and hurried to get ready by donning rash guards and rubbing bars of wax across the decks of their boards. Cassidy exhaled a deep breath, feeling the acute ache of Pete’s absence. Her first warm-water surf without him.
The offshore winds were light, and the wave looked clean. She slipped on her rash guard, picked up the loaner surfboard, and queued up to hop overboard.
It must have been the chilled river emptying into the ocean at Witch’s Rock, or maybe it was just her nerves, but the water gave her goose bumps. She rubbed them away while the trio of guys paddled swiftly to the peak.
Cassidy joined them, trying to read the wave, get her bearings. The couple, looking ready for war with their stern expressions and rigid posture, joined the lineup as well. When a wave came her way, Cassidy spun for it. She paddled two strokes and the wave was upon her, the light offshore wind brushing her face. She punched to her feet and soared down the wave face. The wave was lightning fast, arching up a few feet over her head. Her wave thinned and teetered—readying to close out—so she flew over the edge, and it punched shut behind her in a roar. Why was no one else here to surf this? she wondered as a giant smile lit up her face. Eagerly, she returned to the lineup, waited through a lull, then took another wave, and another.
“Not bad, huh?” said a voice from nearby when she rejoined the lineup after a string of waves. It was Bruce, floating without a board.
Cassidy grinned. “Nope, not bad at all.” She watched the man paddle into a wave and disappear, followed by the woman.
“You’re making good use of that board, I see,” he said, giving her a nod.
Cassidy would have preferred something a little shorter, but she appreciated his generosity. Even with the rub about being a sleepyhead, she was grateful that he had let her tag along. “Yes, thanks again.”
“Reeve is a bodysurfer too,” Bruce said. “One of the things that impressed me.”
“We surfed a lot as kids,” Cassidy said. “He tried board surfing, but always preferred just himself and the water.” At the time, she had called him weird; it was just one more thing that Reeve did differently.
“Did he bodysurf on the Nicaragua trip?” she asked.
Bruce squinted one eye, as if thinking. “Maybe? He was busy with filming. I remember him spending more time on the boat that trip. Editing, I guess.”
“How were the waves?”
“We scored epic Yankee on that trip. A couple other decent days too.” A set wave swung wide, and seeing that no one else was in position to take it, Bruce started swimming furiously, his arms like windmills. Cassidy had to paddle outside to avoid getting trapped, but watched Bruce drop in as she crested the lip. He extended his right arm and his body became a long plank, skimming the surface of the wave like some kind of sea animal.
“Where did you and Reeve grow up?” Bruce asked once he was back in the lineup.
She avoided the long answer to this question. “Ventura.”
“Nice,” Bruce said. “I surfed Santa Cruz island once,” he said.
Cassidy blinked in surprise. “Wow, how was it?”
“I was with a buddy who was a park ranger out there for a while. The wave was fun. Lots of wildlife out there.”
“Huh,” Cassidy said. She had never been out to the island. There were always so many other places to surf on the mainland.
To her surprise, Bruce uttered, “Uh oh,” and quickly disappeared.
Cassidy looked around, confused. Was something wrong? She zeroed in on the area inside of the wave. Maybe someone was hurt, or had broken a board. Just then, Cassidy saw the woman’s head pop up, her hair draped down her face. She thrashed, coughed.
Bruce was kicking towards the woman. Meanwhile, a giant set was approaching. One of the trio of surfers was lined up for it, stroking slowly forward, his gaze over his shoulder to gauge his final approach.
Bruce reached the woman, who was saying something Cassidy couldn’t hear over the wave’s roar. Her eyes had that desperate “deer-in-the-headlights” look. Bruce gave her some kind of instruction, his face tense. The surfer from the peak dropped in, and Cassidy lost sight of them all as the wave swept past. Had the surfer seen Bruce and the woman in time to avoid a collision?
The wave broke, a foamy, thick cloud of icy blue and white. Bruce’s head popped up. Then, Cassidy watched in horror as the tip of the woman’s board punched through, but then was sucked backwards into the exploding wave. Bruce swam back to her, and Cassidy caught a glance at them as she bobbed up and over the lip of the set wave. The woman took a lungful of air and dove, while Bruce paddled her board expertly forward, then scooped beneath the water.
Both of them popped up outside. The woman, eyes wide with desperation, paddled to Bruce. He returned her board and Cassidy heard them exchange a few words. Then the woman paddled slowly in the direction of the boat.
“What happened?” Cassidy said when Bruce returned. The woman’s husband had caught up to his wife, and though Cassidy couldn’t hear what they were saying, the woman’s shoulders shook with sobs.
“I think this wave is more than she bargained for,” he said.
Cassidy knew what that felt like. It was terrifying.
The group continued trading waves until the wind kicked up, shearing the lips off the waves to blow shrapnel-like mist against her cheeks. It became difficult to see the drop while paddling into a wave because of the windborne spray.
Bruce rounded up the group, and one by one, they took their last waves and headed back to the boat, lined up like a row of ducklings. Augusto helped load everyone’s boards, handing out waters or beers, and soon Bruce was pulling in the anchor. The woman who had been caught inside looked revived, though she sat in the shade on the side of the boat, staring into the horizon.
Cassidy rinsed her face with fresh water from a jug on the stern, thinking about Reeve shirking good surf to edit footage of the guests. Maybe he’d finally grown up.
The wave at Ollie’s Point was not as powerful, but the rides were long and the offshores softer. The group spent a few hours enjoying the spot until the tide changed and it was time to go home. Bruce came out to film for a short while, and spent the rest of the time on the boat. It gave Cassidy time to process some of the things she had learned, but when they returned to Coco Beach, she still felt just as clueless about where Reeve was, or if he was okay.
When she checked her phone back at the hotel, a text message from Rebecca was waiting:
Have you found out anything?
Cassidy tossed the phone on the bed and took a long shower, trying to use the time to organize her thoughts before typing:
He disappeared in Nicaragua.
What was he doing in Nicaragua?
He was working on a boat. He went ashore in San Juan del Sur and never came back.
Did you go there?
Cassidy frowned. Go to Nicaragua? She typed: No. There was a pause, and Cassidy was about to toss her phone back on the bed when it chirped.
Have you been to the police yet?
No
They say they’re looking into it but I don’t think they are
Okay, I can go tomorrow. Time for a drink, she thought.
Rebecca replied with a “thumbs-up” emoticon.
Cassidy took her laptop to the restaurant, where she or
dered a plate of fried shrimp and beans. While she ate, she tidied up her inbox and then edited a paper she was collaborating on. Her study on Arenal focused on understanding how a certain type of seismic signal, called harmonic tremor, was related to changes in the behavior of the volcano. Her goal was to see if she could find a way to forecast the next explosion and correlate the characteristics of tremor signal with the eruption’s size. This paper, along with a handful of other papers she was either writing or co-authoring with others, was a key step towards landing a permanent job. Being a post-doc was sort of like having a two-year job interview; the university gave you money, and then everyone, including faculty at other universities that were hiring that year, sat back and watched how well you used it. The antidote to worrying about it was to publish like crazy.
Her stomach did a little flip when she saw a note from Héctor. He had sent a short message saying that all six of their seismic stations were functioning. “Yes!” she said. Because she wasn’t scheduled to return to the volcano for another four months, this was excellent news. Though Héctor’s note was professional, he did sign off with, “Be safe.”
She was so lost in her work, taking breaks only to sneak bites of her food and sip her beer that when she was done, it was after ten o’clock, and her eyes felt gummy. She noticed a basketball game on the TV over the bar and Mel leaning against the counter watching it, with a few other guests clustered nearby. She paid her bill and slid out of her chair, feeling the soreness in her arms after the day of surfing and the stiffness in her butt from sitting so long. She approached the brightly lit bar and pulled up a stool. Mel floated her way.
“So, are you Crazy Mike?” she asked, tucking one leg under the other.
“Nope,” he said. “My Pop. He helped me build this place.”
“Is he crazy?” she asked.
“He was, a little, but in a good way,” Mel said with a tightness around his eyes.
“Oh,” Cassidy said, chiding herself for intruding. “I didn’t mean . . . ”
Mel shrugged. “It’s okay,” he said, even though she could tell that it wasn’t—something she understood intimately. “So, you’ve been glued to that screen of yours all night,” he said, nodding at her vacated table. “Ready for a break?”
Cassidy was grateful that he had changed the subject so gracefully. “As long as it’s delicious.”
His eyes flashed with a playful sparkle. “Hmm, don’t tell me . . . ,” he said, then closed his eyes and went into a pretend trance. “Mojito?” He opened his eyes.
“Sure,” she said.
He gave her a look. “That wasn’t what you were thinking, though, was it?” he asked.
“No, but a mojito sounds good,” she replied with a shrug.
“Manhattan?” he asked.
“No.”
He squinted again. “Margarita? I make the mix myself. Fresh lime. Raw honey.”
She laughed, shook her head.
A look of enlightenment came over him. “Old fashioned.”
Cassidy’s gut took a dive, and her head felt like a bell that someone had just rung. How could Mel have guessed such a thing? An image of Pete raising a birthday toast to her flooded her mind. “No,” she managed to say, her smile feeling tight. “Mojito, please.”
Mel seemed to sense her mood shift, but covered it with a small bow. “As you wish,” he said, and began making her drink with vigor.
“Thanks for connecting me with Bruce,” she said when he returned with the drink, a pink umbrella speared through a lime wedge balanced on the lip.
“Sure,” he said. “Good waves?”
She nodded. “Amazing. I’d always wanted to surf there.”
He glanced at the TV where a player was shooting free throws—and made both of them. “Any info on your brother?”
“Stepbrother,” she corrected, taking a sip. A rush of fresh lime and a tasty bite of sour woke up her taste buds. “I found out where he disappeared. He was working for Bruce on a tour that stopped in San Juan del Sur.” Remembering the cool ocean breeze on her face while on the boat, she huffed out a breath of hot air.
Mel crossed his arms. “Nicaragua?”
Cassidy took another sip and licked the sugar off her lip.
“Do you think he could still be there?”
“I have no idea,” Cassidy replied. Why would he get off the boat in Nicaragua? Weren’t there enough drugs and girls and parties in Tamarindo?
“He hangs out with the surf guides sometimes. You might ask them if they know anything. They’re usually surfing La Casita in the early morning.”
“I don’t have a board.”
He raised an eyebrow, then pointed. “Take your pick,” he said as she followed his finger to the board cage. “It’s a fast little wave, fun on the kind of swell we’ve got running right now. Look for Macho and Eddie.”
“Okay,” Cassidy said. There was no harm in catching a few waves in the morning before her visit to the police station, right? Plus, she doubted the police were going to be able to tell her anything.
“How far away is San Juan del Sur?’” she asked.
Mel was back to watching the game, but crossed his arms and glanced back at her. “Depends on the border crossing. On a good day, it can take five hours, give or take. During a holiday or a busy weekend it can take all day.”
Cassidy thought about this.
“Want me to reserve a rental car for you?” he asked.
Cassidy was not ready to commit to such a thing. “How’s the surf in Nicaragua?” she asked instead.
“There’s some great breaks up there, but access is tricky. Most of the good waves are in front of fancy resorts, or the roads are crap. It’s really better to go by boat.”
On her way to her room, Cassidy stopped by the board cage and a petite woman let her in. She chose a rounded fish shape because it looked fun. “Where’s La Casita?” she asked the woman, whose nametag identified her as Aliana.
“Just north of the river,” she said in perfect English. “There is a tiny, white house in front of the place where the wave breaks,” she added.
Cassidy finished filling out her rental form, thanked Aliana, and with her laptop tucked under one arm and her loaner board tucked under the other, shuffled down the walkway to her room.
Once inside, she placed the board on its side against the wall and her laptop in its case on the dresser. She thought she would send one last message to Rebecca about her plan to talk to Reeve’s friends in the lineup. The steady supply of beers while she had worked, along with the nightcap afterwards, had the desired effect of making her feel a calm buzz she hoped would help her sleep. Where was her phone? She did a sweep of the room. Hadn’t she left it on the bed? She checked the bathroom, then finally found it on the dresser.
Rebecca had already beaten her to a new message: There’s great surfing near San Juan del Sur. I know you have the money.
Cassidy sighed and dropped onto the bed. When her father passed away, he had left most of his money to Quinn and herself; Pamela didn’t need it, and besides, the life insurance policy had covered all their debts. Her father had been an advertising executive, so the inheritance wasn’t a small sum. It always made her feel weird whenever anyone found out about it. Most of it sat in a bank account and was managed by an investment firm her dad had set in place long ago. She wasn’t rich, but she would certainly never go hungry. Most of the time, she tried to forget the money was there. Of course, Rebs made this impossible.
I’ll think about it, she typed.
Five
Cassidy pulled away from the dream in which she stood on a lonely curve of road, the fog floating on the wind past her cold face. Once her eyes popped open, she recognized the familiar setting and took a series of long, calming breaths. Slowly, the image of the road showing black skid marks faded, but the anger did not. Tears of frustration sprang into her eyes. Why did you have to die and leave me all alone? she thought. We were supposed to be together forever.
She swatted away her tears and scolded herself for being angry at Pete. The crash had been an accident, though the police had never been able to explain why he had lost control. Cassidy breathed deeply and dipped into her usual visualization: walking with Quinn on a beautiful, white sandy beach. She imagined the crunch of the sand and the sound of the gentle waves, the smell of the sea and the honey-scented flowers growing on the trees at the edge of the shore. It took a moment, but the exercise helped her shift back to herself. Or what was left of it.
Knowing that further sleep would elude her, Cassidy got up and turned off the air conditioner, put on the robe, and went to sit on her stoop.
The quarter moon hung low in the sky, and she could hear the surf crashing against the shore. Insect hum filled in the gaps between waves. She went back for her hairbrush and returned to untangle and plait her long, honey-brown mane. Might as well get ready, she thought.
The water was warmer than at Witch’s Rock the day before, but still felt cool against her skin this early in the morning. A yellow blush was spreading across the horizon by the time she paddled out at La Casita, first wading through the sandy shallows, then paddling hard for the outside. The fish-shaped surfboard felt a bit squirrelly under her, but she knew the two of them would bond soon enough.
She had never intended to be a surfer. Growing up in Boise, Idaho, she spent her summers outside riding her bike and playing in the creek, and her winters skiing. Back then her favorite activity was ballet, and she was on track to become quite good at it. But five years after her mother passed away, her father had reconnected with his high-school sweetheart and moved them to California. Cassidy didn’t take well to the move. She quit ballet after a year of classes in her new town—her southern California classmates were unbearably cruel, and the snooty ballet mistress had called her footwork “sloppy.” Without ballet to anchor her, she drifted and not in a positive way. By eighth grade, she had fallen in with the shady crowd that did things like vandalize people’s houses, smoke pot, and skip school. But one of her boyfriends was a surfer and offered to teach her. In a way, she knew surfing had saved her, though it had made her even more of an outsider.
