by Suzan Colon
First wave. No white water. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Carson kind of liked me. I mean, there was that deeply meaningful moment when we first met, but maybe that was only meaningful for me, and I still don’t know why.
Oops, second wave, but there’s no white at the top. Then there was the way he was so focused on our conversation at lunch and how he ditched Allegra to help me find a wave. Yeah, but teaching us how to surf is his job, after all. Besides, why should it matter to me? I mean, it does feel nice to have some attention from a hot guy, especially after a big bad breakup.
Third wave, white water. Whoa, wait, what?
“Okay, Kate,” Carson says, shoving my board toward the wave, “here we go!”
Here we go. Isn’t that all anyone wants in life? To be a “we” and to be going somewhere? But it’s just me now, being swiftly carried by this wave as it rolls toward the shore. Yikes . . .
And wow. Wow! This is amazing! Instead of being freaked out, I’m totally excited. The wind is rushing past me, the wave is carrying me, and I feel steady enough to push up to my hands and knees. When the board pitches, my body self-corrects automatically.
“That’s it, Kate!” Carson yells encouragingly.
Of course, that’s when I fall off the board.
When I come back up to the surface, Carson is right by my board, waiting for me. “Nice going!” he says, giving me a high-five. “Want to try again?”
“Absolutely!” I say, thrilled by my early surfing achievement. And yes, by Carson’s amazing grin.
9.
WHEN I’M AT HOME, I eat like a girl. Egg whites for breakfast, salad for lunch, steamed vegetables, fish, and rice for dinner. Here at the surf camp, I’m eating like a dude, and a hungry one. My dinner plate is crowded with two burritos, rice, beans, salsa, guacamole, and a brownie, which I’m already scarfing on the way to the table. I’m ravenous from my very first afternoon of surfing. I pulled myself on the board, counted sets, found my waves, and launched. And fell off the board more often than not. But at the end of the afternoon, I actually stood up and rode a wave all the way to the shore. Me, a surfer!
I’m so stoked that I don’t even sip the single-girl Haterade when Allegra starts telling our group the story of how she and her fiancé met. “Craig and I were friends in school for, like, ever,” she says. “When we went to different colleges, he sent me the sweetest, most adorable emails. There was this totally different side of him I’d never seen before. When he came home for Christmas, he gave me this.” She flashes her disco-ball ring.
Amazingly, I feel good enough about my surfing success to join in the group Awwww, especially when I remember Allegra leaving the water after her second wipeout, saying she’d had enough. I felt kind of bad for her, but she was pouty, like if she couldn’t have Carson to herself, she was over the whole surfing thing. I notice she was much better at getting into position at the dinner table, sliding into the seat right next to him.
“I miss Craig so much,” she says. “I mean, I’m having the best time, but I can’t wait to see him again.”
“The next time you see him, you’ll be wearing your wedding dress,” says Lucene, one of her bridesmaids.
This time, I abstain from the group Awwww, preferring to chomp on my burrito.
Nicholas is getting fussy, so Brigitte and William pick him up and say goodnight. The Honeymooners rise to go back to their bungalow and, I guess, do what honeymooners do. Evan, Randy, and Carson also get up to leave, telling us they’ll see us at breakfast tomorrow. Carson’s last look and smile is for me. “’Night, Kate the Great,” he says. Since my mouth is full, I just give him a little wave.
The only ones left at the table are the Bridal Party. As soon as everyone else is gone, Allegra turns to her girls and widens her eyes dramatically. “OMG, he is sooooo hot,” she says, fanning herself.
“Oh please, which one?” Lucene says. “All three of them are gorgeous.”
“Are you kidding?” Allegra rolls her eyes. “I meant Carson!” Her friends give girly shrieks of delight and high-five her.
“You know it, girl,” says Jeanine. “He is hot.” Then they all start discussing Carson, or, rather, dissecting him, talking about everything from his cute butt to the size of his hands and what that might mean about the rest of him.
Then Allegra says, “I wonder if Craig would mind if I put Carson at the top of my list,” as she twists her engagement ring thoughtfully.
“What list?” asks Krystal, the only member of the bridal party who doesn’t have a Texas-sized engagement or wedding ring on her finger.
“You know, the list of famous people it’s okay to have sex with even when you’re in a relationship,” says Allegra. “Like for Craig, we joke that if he ever met Fergie, I’d have to give him a pass and let him have sex with her. I wonder if I could move Carson up over Justin Timberlake.” She and the girls giggle.
I’m beginning to feel like this second burrito wasn’t such a great idea as my stomach tightens. How could Allegra be so obviously in love with her fiancé and considering a fling with Carson? When I was with Daniel, I never looked at other guys. Okay, maybe I peeked if someone was really good looking, but I’d never have even thought about cheating. Maybe she’s just kidding.
But as she goes on and on about Carson, my thoughts turn as bitter as my stomach feels. If she knew how lucky she was that her boyfriend loved her enough to propose and marry her, she wouldn’t be lusting after our surfing instructor, no matter how hot he is. When I feel tears burning my eyes, I stand up suddenly. The squeak of my chair being shoved back makes a noise that silences the women. I leave quickly, tossing the rest of my dinner before they can see me crying.
WHEN I GET downstairs, I wipe my eyes quickly when I hear someone calling my name. “Señorita Kate,” calls the desk clerk. He comes outside and hands me a key. “We have a room for you now. We can move your things from your tenalow to a bungalow, if you like.”
I take the key. “That’s okay. I’ll take care of it, thanks.”
Crickets and other nocturnal musicians serenade me as I walk back to my tent house. Before I go in to get my luggage, I look up and see constellations of twinkly stars. It gets foggy here at night, so only the brightest stars cut through the mist. The sky tonight is a dark purplish grey, so completely beautiful that I just stand outside and stare at it for who knows how long. A crescent moon, tilted sideways, looks like a smile.
I can hear the waves lapping against the sand, the sound that lulled me to sleep last night. I remember the crazy guttural shouts of the howler monkeys in the morning, but I don’t think any bungalow walls can shut them out. I let the tent flaps close and walk down to the beach.
The current here is gentler than where we surfed today, but as I look out at the water, sparkling even with that thin smile of moonlight, I can’t believe I rode those waves. On a normal night, what would I be doing right now? Waiting for Daniel? Sitting at my table, eating alone?
Back at the front office, the clerk looks up in surprise when I hand him the key to the bungalow. “Is something wrong?” he asks.
“Not a thing,” says Kate. “In fact, everything’s great.”
10.
Emerald Cove Surf Camp Schedule
Day 2: Water Practice
8:00 a.m.—9:00 a.m.
Yoga with special guest instructor Kate McNamara!
9:00 a.m.—10:00 a.m.
Group breakfast on the veranda at the Main House
10:30 a.m.—12 noon
Surfing lessons continue!
12:00 noon—1:30 p.m.
Lunch
2 p.m.—5:00 p.m.
More surfing or free time, your choice
6:30 p.m.—9:00 p.m.
Dinner on the veranda at the Main House
NERVOUS AS I am about pretending to teach a yoga class today, the sunrise is so beautiful that I can’t help but sit on the beach and sigh over it. The sun is such an intense, deep orange that it’s turning the sky an
d the ocean the colors of a ripe peach.
I stand up and unfurl my yoga mat, smoothing it out on the sand. After Kate, my brave alter ego, volunteered to lead a yoga class today, I need my regular morning yoga routine more than ever. Not just to limber up, but to calm down. I hope Kate kicks in by the time the rest of the group arrives, or this is going to be the most stressful yoga class ever.
But as I start doing my deep breathing exercises, I realize it’s hard to worry about being a fake yoga teacher or anything else in this paradise. I found the most perfect spot to do yoga, a cove around a bend that’s secluded from the rest of the campgrounds. I’m on the beach, partially hidden by palm trees swaying in the early morning breeze. The sky is dark behind me and blazing peach and scarlet in front of me. At home, I do sun salutations on my living room floor while watching a yoga DVD filmed in a setting just like this. Today, I’m saluting the real sun as it rises over the ocean, and I’m the star of my own yoga video.
I move easily, noticing how much more flexible I am here. It must be this place, where the air is clean, always alive and moving through the lush trees. I can taste the salt of the ocean on my lips. The constant song of waves is so relaxing. The atmosphere here is so physical with cool breezes in the morning, sun warming me all the way to my bones during the day, and evening mist that makes my skin dewy. At home, the only things I seem to notice are “sunny” or “rainy.” Here, the environment seems to want to make its presence known to my body, and my body is responding.
As the early morning warms, I peel off my long-sleeved T-shirt because my tank top will be enough. The ocean breeze caresses my arms, giving me little shivers of joy. I lean forward, touching my toes, glad to be barefoot almost all the time. There’s no need for shoes at the beach or anywhere else on the grounds. In fact, there’s no real need for too many clothes. Everyone just wears rash guards and board shorts or bikinis to surf in, and at dinner, they throw a T-shirt or a sarong over their swimsuits for decorum. It didn’t take me long to realize I’d be spending most of my time in my bikini top and swim shorts, and I’m surprised at how comfortable I am about it. I guess people become uninhibited fast around here since everyone’s half-undressed all the time. It sure doesn’t leave much work for the imagination.
I stand on one leg in tree pose, carefully bending my other knee, turning it out, and placing my foot at my inner thigh. I bet Carson could do a good tree pose. He’s got really long legs and that great balance from surfing. I can just see him with those legs full of lithe muscle and that tan skin that looks really smooth, maybe wearing only his board shorts . . .
My arms spin as I suddenly fall out of my tree. Whoa, where the heck did that come from? One minute I was admiring the sunrise, and the next minute I was having some decidedly un-yogic thoughts about Carson. And wasn’t I just condemning Allegra last night for objectifying him? I come back to my yoga mat and switch legs, standing firm. No, that was different. She was reducing him to a sexual object, and there seems to be more to him than just his incredible looks. Like the way he pays attention to people when they’re speaking. And how patient and kind he is when he teaches. He’s just a really nice guy. A really nice, really hot guy.
I have to smile. I may be depressed, but apparently I’m not dead. Okay, back to yoga. Mind, behave.
In warrior pose, I arch back, going further than I usually can. My chest is open, my heart is open, my skin, my mind, all of me feels open and ready. But ready for what?
I sigh and go back to standing still.
No. I’m not going back to standing still. I wanted to move forward in my life, to stop waiting for things to happen. Well, I feel ready for something, for whatever is ahead of me. And right now, what’s ahead of me is the ocean.
With a whoop of courageous joy, I run full speed into the waves.
MY MEDITATION IS interrupted by the sounds of people behind me. The other surf campers have begun arriving for the morning yoga class that I, Kate, fake yoga instructor, am supposed to teach them. My eyes pop open. What was I thinking, saying I could do this?
Then I close my eyes again and take a deep breath. I can do this. I can, I can. I imagine myself as Kate, swanning confidently into the studio at Mountain Yoga. How did my teachers there greet a class? Slowly, calmly, I rise and face them. “Namaste,” I say, bringing my hands together at my heart. “That’s the traditional yoga greeting for, ‘I see the light in you’.” That’s what my teachers would say as they looked at every student and smiled. I do this, too, looking at Jamie, at all the women in the bridal party, even smiling at Allegra, and at Brigitte, who gives me a secret thumbs-up. I’m doing great, and there are only a few people, all girls. Okay, I’ve got this.
Just then, our surf instructors come walking up the beach. I wave at them, thinking they’re going to go do whatever surf instructors do after their sunrise surf session. Evan and Randy wave back and walk up the path to the resort. Carson keeps walking toward us, eventually putting his surfboard down. He’s still glistening with seawater.
“Am I late for class?” he asks. His smile rivals the sunrise.
Kate. Kate, Kate, Kate the silky talker. “You’re right on time,” I say. “Here, you can use my mat.”
Carson comes over to take my mat, his eyes never leaving mine, and goes to a space at the side, right in the front. He peels off his rash guard, and I don’t think my eyesight has ever been sharper than when I’m looking at his muscular arms and smooth, sculpted chest. Now he’s just down to his red board shorts and a smile. Before, just thinking about him made me fall when I was standing on one leg. Now I’m standing on two legs, and I could tip right over.
Suddenly, I realize everyone is looking at me expectantly, because I’m supposed to start teaching some nice, calming, serene yoga. Oh my God. I have a flare of panic—What was I thinking!!—before I take a deep breath. Relax, my yoga teachers always said. Breathe, and find your center. “Breathe,” I say, as much to myself as the group. “Let’s all close our eyes and breathe for a moment.”
Somehow, everything becomes fine. I tell them that this will be a very easy practice since Allegra said she needs some pre-wedding de-stressing. She smiles at me in genuine gratitude. This is such a yoga moment that I feel like a real teacher, and I start instructing an easy sun salutation, cheating a little with peeks at my journal, where I sketched stick figures doing the simplest poses I could remember from my classes.
While everyone’s in downward dog, on their hands and feet and with hips high in the air, I hear someone whisper, “Kate. Over here.”
It’s Carson, beckoning me with his eyes. “Am I doing this right?” he asks.
I look at his form in this position, braced on his hands and feet, his butt in the air. His very athletic, man-dorable butt.
I try to focus on his question. “Can you bring your hips back a little more?”
“I’m not sure,” he says. “Can you show me?”
There’s only one way to help him with this, and I have to take an extra deep breath to build the courage to do it. Just as my teachers did for me many times, I stand behind Carson, brace my bare feet against the outsides of his tanned and manly-gorgeous feet, take hold of his sexy-slim hipbones, and gently pull back. I try really hard not to stare at his butt. I fail a thousand times.
Carson makes a contented sound. “Oh, that feels great.”
“It sure does,” I sigh. “I mean, when you get into the right position.” O-kaaay, I’m going to let go and leave him now, before Kate starts saying what’s on her playful mind.
“MMM,” CARSON SAYS, his eyes closing with satisfaction. “This is amazing.”
Randy, sitting next to him at the communal breakfast table, laughs. “Dude, this is the same bacon and eggs they make every day.”
“And it’s amazing, every day,” Carson says, taking a big bite of toast.
Carson really enjoys his food. He’s so different from Daniel, who’s not only a non-animal-eating animal rights person, but a picky eater as well.
Then again, he had to be. The first time he showed me photos of himself as a kid, he pointed to a sad, very overweight teenager. I couldn’t believe that was my lanky, lithe man. Apparently he ate his way through his parents’ divorce until friends took him to his first punk rock concert. The angry music expressed his feelings better than his angry eating, and soon he’d slam-danced his way to cool-boy slimness. But he always remained wary about food, as particular as the women I worked with at the fashion magazine. While most of my friends gained ten happy pounds after moving in with their boyfriends, my weight remained the same during my entire relationship with Daniel.
“And now, the best part,” Carson says, holding up what looks like a large purple egg. He cuts it in half and scoops out a spoonful of bright yellow orbs covered in thick, sunny juice. When he puts it in his mouth, he looks transported.
“What is that?” I ask.
He looks at me, his bright eyes wide. “Please don’t tell me you’ve never had fresh passion fruit before.”
I shake my head. “And I don’t know if I could. It looks like the inside of an alien egg.”
“You have to try new things,” he says. “That’s what life is all about.” He dips his spoon into the fruit and holds it in front of me. “Close your eyes,” he instructs, “and open your mouth.”
Instead of slimy, the little orbs turn out to be slippery. They dance around in my mouth for a few seconds. When my tongue bursts them against the roof of my mouth, tang! So much tang that I can’t help but grin. Then comes the sweetness, and it all tastes like super-concentrated sunshine.
“Well?” Carson asks.
“Can’t talk,” I say. “Having a moment.” I let the sunshine wash down my throat. “Wow, where’s that stuff been all my life?”
“Told you,” he says, smiling as he hands me the other half of his passion fruit.
