by Suzan Colon
On the tail end of this is the idea that I can’t get what I want until I become that kind of person. I open my eyes suddenly, intimidated by the gravity of that thought, and start looking for Brigitte, William, and Nicholas.
As I wander the park among groups of tourists, I hear a rich male voice behind me say, “Hey.” I take a deep breath and try to summon up Kate, because I know after that dream I’ll blush when I see Carson. I turn around and give him what I hope is just a friendly smile. My eyes can’t help but sweep over him, noticing his off-beach outfit of faded, soft-looking jeans, a pair of dark blue Sanuk surf shoes, and a red cotton shirt with the name of a surf company on it, its long sleeves pushed up and revealing tanned, sinewy forearms. “Nice volcano you have here,” I say breezily.
“We like it,” he says. “We plug it in when people come to visit.”
Thankfully, Brigitte walks over to us, so I don’t have to worry about making cool, unflustered conversation. She asks to take our picture with the volcano in the background. Carson’s a full head and shoulders taller than me, so he leans down and puts his arm around me. His hand rests lightly on my waist, just above the band of my khaki Capris, and the warmth of his palm is making my cheeks flush a pink I’d bet is as deep as the shade of my tank top. It’s fine, I’m fine. Just take the freakin’ picture, Brigitte.
“A little closer,” she says, taking her time focusing the camera. Oh, for the love of . . . I give her a look, wondering if she’s a photographer or a matchmaker, just as Carson gently pulls me close enough that our hips are touching. Oh hell, he even smells amazing, like fresh soap and warm man. I give up and put my arms around his waist, feeling lean muscle. His cheek comes to rest against the top of my head.
Brigitte’s camera clicks a few times. “Nice, you two,” she says. When she finally finishes, Carson gives me a little smile before releasing me. Good, okay, that’s done, I think as I absently touch the spot where his hand was, my skin missing his touch already.
ALL THE NATURAL wonders of the world have one universal element in common: the gift shop. At least the one here isn’t too tacky, no volcanoes in snow globes, for example. But there are beautifully shaped wooden bowls, handmade braided tethers for hanging plants, lots of things made from coconuts, and of course, postcards.
As our group fills shopping baskets with gifts for family and friends back home, I wander the aisles, stopping in front of a large, colorful box full of seashells. I pick up a gorgeous, creamy conch that turns pink where the smooth shell curves inward, and I do something I haven’t done since I was a child. I hold the shell to my ear to listen.
Listen, Katy, my father said on our first visit to his new home in California. He’d taken Bethy and me to the shore, and we walked along the coastline and heard seals barking in the distance. My sister was thrilled, both by the seals and the reunion with our father. I was quiet, remote, still trying to figure out in my teenaged mind how he could love us and have left us. Dad had been trying for the whole week to reach me.
He found a shell on the beach and handed it to me. “Put it up to your ear, Katy. Listen,” he said. I did, and I could feel my pain falling away in a moment of joyful discovery. “Hear the ocean?”
I nodded, my eyes wide. That was the first time I’d smiled in a long while. It’s similar to the way I’m smiling now at the memory.
Carson comes along and stands by me. “Mermaid cell phone,” I joke, putting the shell back in the basket.
“Ah, the shell phone,” he adds, smiling. “Are you having withdrawal? Not a lot of people get cell service here.”
“Actually, I forgot my phone at home,” I tell him. “I thought I’d break out in hives without it, but it’s kind of nice not being a slave to it, feeling like I have to check it every five seconds.” Or getting depressed over bad phone calls with the ex.
Carson nods. “I feel the same way. I don’t use mine much. It’s in a drawer in my room somewhere. I don’t want to be in a beautiful place like this and have my phone go off. I’d rather just be in this moment, you know?”
As someone who has been living in a hoped-for future for the past five years, the idea of being here, right now, sounds very good to me.
MERCIFULLY, THE VAN ride from the volcano park back to Emerald Cove is free of heavy thoughts and sexy dreams. After watching the lush green countryside whizz past my drowsy eyes, we arrive back at camp just in time for another yummy, healthy dinner, with a backdrop of a brilliant sunset in shades of orange and purple. Then, Juan leads us all to the beach for a bonfire, complete with music, wine, and cake with luscious dulce de leche filling. Soon everyone’s feeling good, stoked on drinks, sugar, and a beach fire.
William and Brigitte beckon me to sit with them. They’ve been so great about making sure I’m not lonely on this trip. That’s a good thing, because as I look around the campfire, I can’t help but notice that everyone has somebody, either here or at home. The bridal party girls all have their men, and now Krystal is having a whispery chat with Evan. The Honeymooners kiss languorously. Brigitte, of course, has William, who’s got his arm around her. The scene goes a little blurry when tears start pooling in my eyes.
At just that moment, little Nicholas crawls into my lap and starts falling asleep. I stroke his silky hair, imagining what it would be like to have my own child in my arms. I have to take a deep breath to keep the tears from spilling. Someday, I promise myself. Someday soon.
Fortunately, I’m distracted when William and Dean, the only guy campers, start asking the instructors about the biggest waves they’ve ever surfed. “I did a triple overhead in Maui,” Randy boasts.
“Yeah, but a wave three times your height is only twelve feet,” Evan jokes. Everyone laughs, and Randy mimes punching Evan, even though he’s laughing, too. “At least I’ve been in the green room,” Randy says.
“What’s the green room?” William asks.
“Surfing in the barrel of a big wave,” Evan explains. “The sun shining through the water turns it green, and you’re surrounded by this wall of liquid jade. It’s mind-blowing.”
“It’s the ultimate surfer experience,” Randy says. He turns to Carson. “You ever been in one?”
Carson shakes his head. “I keep trying. It’s got to happen someday.”
Randy pats his shoulder. “Someday, buddy. Cartoon will surf the green room.”
“Cartoon?” Allegra asks.
“We were going to tell you about this at your surf lesson tomorrow,” Carson says. “Almost all surfers have nicknames. Randy’s is ‘Rabies’ because he surfs like a mad dog. Evan’s nickname is Evster, because, well, that’s the best we could come up with.” Everyone laughs again.
“And Carson’s is Cartoon because he rides goofy on the board, with his right foot first,” Evan explains.
“Yeah, but also because when Carson surfs, he looks like his spine’s made of rubber,” Randy says. “When Evan and I first saw him, we were like, ‘Is that how they surf in Long Island?’”
Carson rolls his eyes and smiles as his friends dissolve in good-natured laughter. My mind grabs on to the piece of information that Carson is from Long Island, not too far from where I live. Not that it should matter.
Randy promises us that by the end of the week, we’ll all have surfer nicknames. Everybody starts joking about what their names might be as I sigh and look into the fire, cradling Nicholas, wanting and wondering and waiting.
When I look up, I see Carson gazing at me through the flames. He gives me a smile that warms me more than the fire.
I HEAD BACK to my tent, the growing moon illuminating my way enough for me to not need my flashlight. Right before I open the door flap, I see something small and white on the wooden platform floor. Bending down, I find a treasure.
It’s the creamy conch from the volcano park gift shop. Tucked inside the pink curl of the shell is a small piece of paper with a message written on it in neat print: Mermaid cell phone.
A small thrill goes through me. This sweet
, thoughtful gift came from Carson. But why? Oh, he’s probably just being nice. He saw that I liked the shell, and he got it for me, that’s all. And then, when we got back, he apparently sprinted over here and left it for me as a surprise. Okay, that’s not just nice, that’s really nice. Like the touch on the back of my hand, this goes beyond a surf instructor being kind to a resort guest. As did the way he looked at me holding Nicholas at the bonfire. There was something in his smile, like he really liked what he was seeing.
My eyes close as I bring the shell to my ear. Just like when I was a child, I feel pain being replaced by wonder as the ocean whispers secrets to me.
12.
Emerald Cove Surf Camp Schedule
Day 4: Group Surfing
8:00 a.m.—9:00 a.m.
Breakfast on the veranda at the Main House
9:30 a.m.—11:30 a.m.
Surfing lessons continue! Meet on the beach for group assignments
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
THE WORLD IS upside down.
I’m standing on my head against a palm tree on the beach. The dark blue ocean is now where the sky usually is, and from my point of view, the rising sun looks like it’s falling from the sea. It’s day four of my stay at Emerald Cove, and Carson has been sending me what I think are signals that he’s interested in me, but I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. My arms ache from trying to keep most of my body weight off the top of my head, but not as much as my brain hurts from trying to figure out what any of this means and whether it should matter.
As carefully as I can, I bring my feet back down to the sand and kneel in child’s pose, my head past my knees, resting on the sand. Slowly, I rise up, and the world is righted again. If only it felt that way in real life. I’m so not looking forward to going home and facing my new reality of being single. I know Carson is gently nudging me with interest, but I’m leaving soon, so what’s the point? Does he think I’m going to have a quick fling with him, a one-night stand on the beach? Granted, that does sound kind of hot, but does he think I’m the type who would do that?
Wait a minute. He doesn’t know I’m not that kind of girl because I’ve been posing as another kind of girl. He doesn’t know anything about my breakup or my cautious ways, because I’ve been acting like confident, spontaneous, adventurous Kate.
And I’ve been doing a pretty good job, I think as I sit up straighter. I was confident enough to teach a yoga class the other day. I’ve gotten on a surfboard for the first time in my life, and I’m good at it. Heck, I’ve even surprised myself by discovering that I’m a morning person. After years of following Daniel’s night-owl schedule, I now welcome the monkeys waking me at dawn with their crazy howling so I can go to the cove and do sunrise yoga. I’m alone here this morning, maybe because the surf instructors aren’t interested in today’s calm waters. But I’ve been a lot more Kate than Katy this week. Maybe I could be the spontaneous, live-in-the-moment type who would make love on the beach, just like that vision I had of Carson and me when we first met. But that was a fantasy complete with falling in love, not just having a quickie with a near stranger.
Get a grip, Katy, or Kate, or whoever. This thing with Carson is a nice flirtation, fate giving me a lovely distraction from my broken heart. At worst it’s a little misunderstanding on my part, which won’t be embarrassing since I don’t intend to do anything about it. I’m just going to surf, eat some more nice food, and take notes about this place for my article. I’ll have good stories to write about and to tell. And then, when I get home, I’ll try to figure out how to put my life right side up.
AFTER OUR GROUP breakfast, everyone gathers on the beach for our morning surf lesson. I want to thank Carson for the gift of the seashell, but we haven’t had a moment alone yet, and after my upside-down epiphany this morning, I can wait. I stand on the beach, the sand soft and warm under my feet. It’s the time of morning where the sky and the ocean are the same deep blue, like being inside a giant sapphire. I drink in the salty breeze, looking forward to the freeing feeling of surfing again, hugging my pink surfboard close to me. Out of my peripheral vision, I see Carson come to stand next to me. “So, how’s the tentalow treating you?” he asks.
I smile, happy that I don’t have to pretend my way through this conversation. “It’s so great. I love being able to hear the ocean at night.”
“Me, too,” he says. “Though I can’t really hear it at the Rat Hole.”
“The what?”
He smiles. “That’s what we call the bungalow where Evan and Randy and I stay. It’s not that close to the beach. When I first got here, I slept out on the sand for a couple of nights, just to listen to the waves.”
“Then maybe I should get you a seashell, too,” I say, smiling. “Thanks for my present.”
Carson usually wears a happy expression. This smile seems different, more private. “Girl’s gotta have a phone,” he says. “How’s the reception?”
Before I know what I’m doing, maybe because I’m dazzled by the sun and the beach and this moment, I start speaking without thinking about what I’m going to say. “I’m not sure. I feel like I’m getting some signals that I don’t know how to interpret.” I feel myself blushing, but I don’t care. Being honest isn’t so bad. It feels kind of good. “Well, it could all be my imagination.”
Carson turns to me, but before he can say anything, Allegra bounds up to us, or him, really, and announces, “Here I am!” She’s all breathy and glossy from an obvious pre-surfing makeup check. I sigh and look back at the waves, still baffled by how she could love one man and be so obviously eye-boffing another. Carson glances at me again but doesn’t speak.
“Gather ’round, everybody,” Evan calls out. “We’re doing something different today.” When we’re all with the instructors, Evan explains that we’ll be breaking up into two groups. The beginners will stay here and keep working on getting up to a standing position, and the intermediate group will go with Carson to the part of the beach that has bigger waves. “But only if you want to,” Evan adds. “No shame in perfecting your stance with the beginners. Okay?” He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Okay, beginners group staying here with Randy includes Lucene, Lila, Krystal, and Allegra.”
Allegra will never be a good poker player. She can’t hide her disappointment at not being in Carson’s group. “Intermediate surfers,” Evan continues, “are Dean, Jamie, William, and Kate.”
Whoa, wait, what now? My eyes get wide. Me, an intermediate surfer? William comes over and holds up his hand to high-five me, and Brigitte smiles. “Excellent,” she says, leaning in close. “We’ll get some great photos of you for the story.”
“Anyone from intermediates want to stick with the beginners? Last chance,” Evan says. My stomach feels like it’s on an internal surfboard. I look at Carson. “You sure there wasn’t some mistake?”
Smiling, he shakes his head. “You’re a natural. But you can totally stay here if you want, in Randy’s group.”
A whole day with the Bridal Party, including pouty Allegra? No thanks. “If you think I’m ready to move up in the wave world, I’ll take my best shot.”
“Cool,” he says. “So, want me to be your surfing buddy?”
I look up at him, thinking of all sorts of clever things to say. And some that are less clever and more honest. The world feels, if not upside down again, tilted oddly. The word buddy doesn’t match up with the sweetly intense way Carson is looking at me, but all that comes out of my mouth is, “Sure.”
OUR INTERMEDIATE group walks about half a mile down the beach to where the waves are bigger than the gentle ones we’ve surfed before. The confident feeling I’ve had on the board in previous days ebbs away with the crash of each wave.
Jamie, the honeymooning wife, bravely volunteers to go first. After
a few spills, she manages to catch a wave of about six feet. I gasp for her, until I see her tentatively stand up on her board. She whoops triumphantly as we all cheer for her from the beach. Her husband, Dean, goes next. He gets to his hands and knees before falling, but he’s laughing the whole way. William is the star, standing up and actually riding a wave like a real surfer. Brigitte takes photos of everyone and jumps up and down for her hubby. All the while, Evan and Carson are out in the water on their boards, coaching each surfer, riding in alongside them. It doesn’t look as hard as I thought, but I’m still not sure about me being able to handle these intermediate waves.
Carson comes back to the beach after William’s ride and looks at me with an anticipatory grin. “Okay, Kate, you’re up.”
Yes, indeedy. I’m up for going straight back to my tent on dry land and spending the rest of the day in my safe, non-moving bed, writing in my diary, possibly doodling Carson’s name over and over. But Kate smiles and picks up her pink board, ready for action. Darn her anyway.
Carson and I walk to the water’s edge, Brigitte snapping photos of us the whole way. Feeling almost sick with nerves, I turn and give her a look, and she sheepishly backs off. When we get near the shoreline, Carson says, “Tell me what you see, Kate. Read the waves. What kind are they?”
“Spilling,” I say. “Big, scary, spilling waves, much larger than the ones I’ve been practicing on.”
Carson laughs. “And how many in a set?”
I’d already counted while everyone else was surfing. “Fours,” I answer. I mentally kick myself for not taking the opportunity to stall.
