10 Days in Paradise (Tropical Nights)

by Haymore, J.

  Shutting my laptop, I took my cup of coffee in both hands and sat back in the wicker chair. The rising sun, partially obscured by fluffy white clouds, sent gold streaks across the ocean. A surfer stood on the spit of sand at the juncture of the river and ocean, wrapping a cord around his ankle before wading in and jumping belly-first onto his board to paddle through the surf.

  I loved the house. Inside, it was simple, with a kitchen, a living area, a bedroom, and a bathroom. But I hadn’t spent much time inside. The lanai drew me like a lure.

  Mosquitoes had eaten me alive yesterday afternoon, but last night, I’d discovered a fabulous invention in Aunty Nanette’s kitchen drawer called a mosquito coil, a flat green spiral that, when burned like incense, seemed to scare the little beasts away. One smoldered right now on top of the table, uncoiling slowly as dribbles of ash fell to the glass beneath. I shifted in my seat to avoid its noxious wisp of smoke.

  Was Kanoe one of the surfers dotting the ocean this morning? I hadn’t stopped thinking about him for the past twelve hours. Even when I’d tried to work, images of him in those board shorts, drops of water rolling down his hard, bronzed body, kept interfering.

  Gazing out at the sparkling water, I pressed the coffee cup to my chest. Warmth seeped through my thin button-down shirt.

  Maybe he was out there.

  Maybe he could see me watching.

  No. None of those surfboards were yellow.

  A local family stood on the beach strapping their surfboard leashes around their ankles. The dark-haired mother glanced up to the house, locking eyes with me before looking away.

  The chances I would see Kanoe again in the nine days I had left on the island were slim to none. I couldn’t sit around and make myself crazy thinking about a guy I didn’t even know. It was time to start focusing on more important things. First priority was to get ahead on some work. Second on the list was to explore the island.

  A dark glimmer of movement on the ocean caught my eye. A surfer finished his ride with a cannonball over the crumbling back crest of a wave. A woman rose on the swell directly behind him. Her long limbs curved as the board sliced through the water. She finished with a wide turn and a graceful drop into the whitewater.

  I had never surfed before, but I’d been on the swim team in high school. That was a few years ago, and there hadn’t been much time to swim in college.

  What was it like to ride a wave? There had been a challenge in Kanoe’s tone when he’d suggested I try it.

  I wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

  In any case, going surfing would help me keep my mind off Kanoe Anakalea. Hopefully it would stop all those ridiculous fantasies about his lips pressing against mine, his hands all over my body…

  I clenched my teeth and stared out at the surfers. Sitting around fantasizing all day was going to drive me crazy. I needed to get out for a while. I needed to go surfing.

  *****

  Stan at the Orchidisle Surfshop in Hilo agreed to rent me a board for a week. I wanted a short board, one of those sleek little ones the surfers maneuvered over the waves with perfect control, but when Stan heard I was a newbie to the sport, he affectionately pointed to “Big Bertha.” Bertha, he said, was easy to surf on—as stable as a boat—the perfect board for a beginner.

  Well, at least I was finally able to put the convertible’s top down—not due to sunny weather, because it was still drizzling on and off, but out of necessity. There was no other way to transport the surfboard in the tiny car.

  Orchidisle Surfshop was located in a long row of rustic—or maybe rusty was a more appropriate word—buildings on a street bordering the big, empty Hilo Bay, a wide, flat expanse of gray-blue water. I backed out of my parking space and headed back to Aunty Nanette’s place.

  Vehicles lined the narrow street as they had yesterday, some parked parallel to the edge of the cliff, others askew. A few cars had stopped in the center of the street, sporting all manner of surfing equipment.

  When I pulled into the tiny imprint of mud that served as Aunty Nanette’s parking space, mosquitoes swarmed me. I slapped at one on my thigh, leaving a grisly smear of blood and bug guts.

  Getting the surfboard from the car down to the house wasn’t easy. The thing was heavy, not to mention cumbersome. I went barefoot per Kanoe’s suggestion, but scratches covered my feet, legs, and arms.

  Panting, I paused on the lanai, setting the board on end and leaning it against the railing. I peeled off my white swimsuit cover, which wasn’t so white now. Dirt smudged its hem, and a smear of something green splattered down the front.

  Sighing, I used half a bottle of sunscreen on my depressingly pale skin. Then I picked up the board and, trying to balance it under my arm, gingerly negotiated the path to the beach.

  “Ouch,” I muttered. Pebbles, sharp rocks, and plant material brought downstream by the river covered the beach, and I hobbled over the mishmash, searching for soft spots for my abused feet.

  Reaching the water’s edge, I dropped the board awkwardly in the sand and wrapped the leash around my ankle as I’d seen others do all morning. I pulled out a little wedge of white material labeled “Sex Wax” from the waistband of my bikini. Kneeling, I rubbed the wax all over Bertha, something that Stan said was a good idea if one didn’t want to slip and slide all over one’s board—the wax apparently helped your feet remain firmly in position.

  I stood and adjusted the swimsuit bought on my one and only spring break trip in college. It was itsy-bitsy and teeny-weeny, shimmering and silver, and it made me feel like a mermaid.

  As I’d seen countless other surfers do in the past twenty-four hours, I flung the surfboard in the water. It went down with a smack, and I jumped onto it, belly first.

  Gaaaaaaah!

  I gagged down a scream. Goose bumps rippled over my arms, and my skin tightened painfully in all the places it came in contact with the water. I lifted my arms and started plunging them into the sea. No wonder the surfers here paddled with such gusto when they first entered the water—they did it to warm themselves up. So much for warm tropical waters. This ocean was freezing.

  Panic didn’t strike when the first wave broke in front of me. I’d seen what the surfers did and studied the “How to Surf” pamphlet Stan had offered.

  Hiking my body forward just as the wave began to crash over me, I held my breath, braced myself for the onslaught of water, and pushed Bertha’s nose under, following with my body.

  No problem. At first. Then the wave grabbed the bottom of the board, picked us up, and dumped us upside down before ripping Bertha away from me.

  I flipped head over heels in the churning water, not knowing which way was up and which way was down. Bertha jerked my ankle. The ocean roared, pummeling every inch of my body. Roiling, bubbling water flooded my nose and mouth. But then, as quickly as it hit, it stopped. The wave passed, and my own buoyancy propelled me upward. I came to the surface gasping and spitting, snorting saltwater out of my nose.

  Another wave bore down before I had a chance to retrieve Bertha. I dove underwater, but the weight of the board yanked me backward, and again, the whitewater sucked me under.

  This time when I came up, the waves seemed to have lulled. With water still dribbling out of my nose and clumps of hair stuck to my face, I used the leash to reel Bertha in. A wave began to peak ahead. In a state of rising panic, I clambered back onto the surfboard. The water pushed us up, up, nearly perpendicular, and I froze, waiting for it to flip me over backward and drive me down yet again. But it passed. I paddled frantically.

  After two more close calls, I moved beyond the line of breaking waves. The waves rolled gently beneath the board now, and the water was warmer out here, almost balmy. Surfers sat on their boards waiting for waves off in the distance on either side of me, but in this spot I was alone. A soft, cool drizzle had begun. I drifted for a while to catch my breath, then finally rose to a sitting position, straddling the big fiberglass monster.

  Oh no.

&
nbsp; In a matter of seconds, it seemed, Bertha had floated past the surfers. Too far past. I looked to be about a quarter of a mile offshore.

  Some sort of a riptide must’ve caught me. But I was a strong swimmer.

  I began, with firm strokes, to paddle toward the distant beach.

  Kanoe

  I sat upright on my surfboard and stared out to sea, squinting against the glare of the sun. My little brother, Kimo, and our cousin Nalani flanked me. Waves crashed on the beach behind me, waves I could be riding right now.

  But I was distracted.

  Silently, the three of us watched Celeste McMillan paddle hopelessly against the current. I had spotted her several minutes ago—her pale body and massive white board gleamed like beacons across the surface of the water.

  “Lôlô tourists,” Nalani muttered grouchily.

  I nodded, but I also felt a surge of protectiveness for her. She wasn’t crazy, just ambitious for trying to surf here, alone, when she clearly had no idea what she was doing. But she’d tried, and that said something about who she was—someone who didn’t balk from adventure, someone who faced a challenge head-on.

  “So she da one playing house at Aunty Nanette’s?” Nalani asked.

  “Yeah.” I lowered myself onto my board and glanced at Kimo. “I’m going to bring her in.”

  My brother made a face. “No joke?”

  “No joke.” I turned away from Kimo and began to paddle toward the white monster, a strange feeling of dread surging through me.

  Of course I was helping her. Why not? I’d help anyone caught in the riptide. What was I supposed to do, let her get swept out to sea?

  Why, then, had Kimo given me that look?

  I blew out a breath. Kimo wasn’t stupid—he’d probably discerned my interest in this particular woman right away. And Kimo was right to question me. What was I thinking?

  As a rule, I stayed away from tourists. It wasn’t my style to sleep with someone and then forget about them. I didn’t respect anyone who came to the island looking for sex. Vacation flings didn’t make sense to me, but more than that, I’d never felt attracted to a tourist.

  Until now.

  I caught the current and took only a few moments to reach her.

  “Howzit?” I called.

  The look of relief on her face as she looked up and spotted me was palpable. “Kanoe.”

  “You’re in the rip.”

  “I realize that.” Celeste flung her arms in a frustrated gesture. “I just don’t know how to get out of it.”

  I paddled closer, and she sat upright, straddling her board. Her silver bikini boasted metal loops and buttons at every seam—definitely not the most practical gear for surfing at this beach. Still, she looked good—no, she looked amazing, all shiny and gleaming wet, curved in all the right places, her skin pale but even-toned except for a few mosquito bites, and glistening with water droplets. Her slanted green eyes glittered, as clear and sparkling as the ocean. Surprisingly she wasn’t lobster-red by now—she must’ve slathered sunscreen all over herself.

  Too bad it hadn’t been me doing the slathering.

  Slamming the door on that thought, I continued to study her. Her wet hair glinted in the sun, framing a face as pale as her legs, with a spot of pink high on each cheek. With her catlike eyes, she looked like an Irish princess out of some fairy tale, completely out of place in the rugged landscape and rough seas of Hilo.

  Her chest rose as she inhaled, drawing my attention to her bikini top. A bead of seawater disappeared into the cleft between her breasts. Her nipples pushed against the damp material like little pebbles.

  I sat up, forcing my attention to her face, and watched her make a roving assessment of her own. Her gaze traveled over my body, lingering on the tattoo on my shoulder, then my abs and lower. She clasped her bottom lip between her teeth and slowly pulled it free. Once it popped out, it flushed from pale to dark pink.

  Fuck. I nearly groaned aloud.

  Our eyes met, and she looked away. It was almost as if she were embarrassed and shy—but not exactly. What was she thinking?

  Images flashed through my mind, of her mouth on mine, my fingers stroking that silky, pale skin, sliding the straps of that bikini top over her shoulders…

  Stop. I gritted my teeth. She was a haole tourist, here for a few days. And she wore what could only be classified as shark bait. If nothing else, that bikini stood as proof that she didn’t belong here.

  Silence stretched between us. I cleared my throat and swiveled the surfboard so I sat alongside her. “Um…I’ll show you how to get out of the current, okay?”

  We bobbed up and down with the swell of waves as I pointed to the shore. “See that darker line of water crossing from the center of the beach?”

  “I see it,” she said.

  “That’s the channel where the riptide goes out from the shore. The rip is doubly strong here because not only do you have the ocean water coming out, but the river current as well.”

  “I hadn’t thought of the river current.”

  “Did you notice how cold the water was when you first got in?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s the river water flowing out of the channel. See how the surfers stay on one side of the channel or the other? You have to choose a spot, then stay out of the current when you catch waves. The riptide helps to get you out to the break, but once you’re where you want to be, you have to paddle out of it fast, or you’ll end up halfway to the mainland.” I paused, then grinned at her. “Like we are now.”

  She gave me a rueful smile. “I’m an idiot, I know.”

  “Nah, you’re just new here. It’s okay, happens to everyone. You want to go back?”

  She nodded, and I led the way as we paddled out of the current and toward the point that jutted out from the far end of the beach.

  Turning back, I watched her struggle to keep up. I made a conscious effort to slow down—her board was a boat, literally twice as long and twice as heavy as mine, and she had to use her arms like oars.

  “So Stan gave you Bertha?” I asked as she came up alongside me, one of her legs bent at the knee, toes pointing at the sky. I knew that giant white surfboard. It was one of the only loaners on this side of the island.

  “You know Stan?” She gazed down at the board with a look of confusion on her face. “He seemed to think this was what I should use. But don’t you think it’s…er…really humongous?”

  I laughed. “It’s a tanker. You want to try mine?”

  “Maybe.” She glanced sideways at me. A drop of water hovered in her lashes, then she blinked, and it rolled down her pale cheek. “Maybe sometime.”

  We drew close to Kimo, who ignored us, seemingly focusing on searching for a wave to catch. Over the cresting peaks, I saw Nalani paddling back from her most recent ride. I turned to study the horizon.

  “So,” I said softly, “when I said you should try surfing sometime, I didn’t mean you should start here, at this beach. This isn’t a beginners’ surf spot. And I definitely didn’t mean you should try it alone.”

  She winced. “Oh.” After a moment of silence, she said, “I really thought I could do it. I mean, Stan said it was okay as long as the waves didn’t get too big. He gave me an educational brochure. I’m a good swimmer, I was on my high school team—”

  I cut off her rambling list of qualifications. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not safe to surf alone if you’re a beginner.”

  “Yes, well. I guess I learned that the hard way.” She scratched at a clump of wax on her board, then gazed toward the beach, her expression wistful. “I really would have liked to try it, though. It looks so…exhilarating.”

  “I can help, if you want.”

  Celeste smiled. “Well, sure, if you could give me some tips, that would be great.”

  Mesmerized by her smile, I gazed at her for a moment, then turned back toward the horizon, inexplicably excited. “There’s a wave outside. Try it. Get ready and I’ll tell you when to sta
rt paddling.”

  Celeste turned her board and glanced back over her shoulder, waiting. The wave loomed over us.

  “Okay…ready? Go! Paddle hard!”

  Her arms churned the water, but the wave rolled under Bertha.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll try again.”

  She didn’t catch the next three waves we tried. On the fourth, I gave her a push, and off she went, lying on her stomach. All the way to the beach. I caught the next wave to join her.

  She stood ankle-deep in water on the beach, a wide grin spread across her face. “Ohmigod!” Clasping her hands together in front of her, she bounced on her toes, laughing and giddy. “That was so much fun!”

  I knew the feeling.

  I grinned. “Next time, maybe you don’t want to go all the way to the beach. Jump off before you get to the rocks—they can be hard on the board. And next time, try to stand.”

  “Stand?” She gasped in mock horror. “You mean, on my feet?”

  My grin widened. “It’s better that way. Trust me.”

  She caught a second wave on her knees, forcing Nalani off the same wave. Nalani, who didn’t take kindly to people interfering with her rides, bailed out, shouting a long stream of four-letter words. Celeste must not have heard, because she paddled back full of smiles. She stumbled to her feet on the next wave. And pearled. The nose of her surfboard dove toward the ocean floor, sending her tumbling headfirst into the water, which in turn kicked Bertha straight up into the air. I grimaced.

  I watched her emerge and try to reel Bertha in, but another breaking wave pummeled her. She came up again, looking miserable, and paddled to shore, where she dragged the monstrous board out of the water and sat on it like a bench. I caught the next wave in.

  “You okay?” I set my board on the sand and crouched beside her. A stream of blood trickled down her hairline.

  “Sure. I just came in to catch my breath for a moment. Let’s go back out.” She stared at me, furrowing her brow at the expression on my face. “What?”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She looked mildly offended that I should even ask. “I almost stood, did you see it? But I wiped out, and Bertha smacked me on the head.”