Page 26 of The Trouble with Flings

“Not so fast. We need to go over the turtle roll.”

“I saw that on the videos. That’s when you hold on to the board and roll over to your back as the wave breaks, so you can get past it. Piece of cake.” She connects the tether around her ankle.

“All righty, then.”

As we head into the water, she stops and looks at me. “Isn’t it going to be hard to surf without your board?”

“I want to watch you without any distractions to make sure you don’t run into any trouble.”

“Afraid I’ll drown?” she challenges.

“No, but you might swallow too much saltwater and need a hand.”

She arches a brow, a playful smile curving her lips. “We both know I can handle a little saltiness, but suit yourself.” She struts into the cold water, leaving me laughing.

As I follow her in, I remind her of the basics: to listen to her body when choosing the right wave, when to start paddling, what it will feel like when the wave picks her up, and to remember that balance is key. “When you ride a wave in, if you lose your balance, always fall back. Keep your board aimed toward the beach.”

“I know,” she says. “You told me.”

She doesn’t hesitate as we move through the break into waist-deep water. She stands beside her board, squinting against the sun, hair slicked back and dripping. She shivers as swells move past, lifting and easing against her torso. There’s a raw kind of beauty, seeing her like this, woman versus waves.

“Nervous?” I ask.

“No,” she insists a little shakily, but the set of her jaw tells me it’s more from the cold water than nerves.

“You’ve got this,” I encourage.

She nods, climbs onto the board, and studies the water, choosing her wave. When she finally rides one in, she tries to pop up, but hesitates for a split second, and the board shoots out from beneath her. She goes down hard.

“You okay?” I call out as she surfaces and grabs her board.

“Yeah!” She swipes water away from her eyes.

“That was a great try!” I holler. “You hesitated on the pop. You pause, you’re done. You’ve got to commit. Pop and go.”

“I’ll get it this time,” she says as she turns the board around, heading back out.

She rides another wave in and doesn’t hesitate on the pop, but loses her balance and falls off the board. She surfaces, pushing her hair out of her face with one hand, grabbing the board with the other.

I swim over to her as she comes through the break. “That was amazing.”

“I fell,” she argues.

“That’s okay. You didn’t hesitate on the pop. You just didn’t center your weight. You’ll get it.”

“Damn right I will,” she says adorably arrogantly.

I watch her paddle into another wave with strong, committed strokes, and I can practically feel the water lifting her. Not yet. Not yet. A second later she pops up, both feet moving in one beautiful, swift motion, and for a few suspended seconds, she’s standing on the board, riding the wave, the sun catching her shoulders. Her arms are out, her chin is up, and she looks like she’s lit from the inside out.

I rush in as the wave closes out and she drops into the water. She comes up laughing and reaches for her board. That full, unguarded laughter echoes through my chest, and I pull her into my arms, water swirling around our legs. “You did it!”

“I did it!” she exclaims, and then our mouths meet in a fast, hard, thrilling kiss. “I want to do it again.”

“Go!”

She nods excitedly, and as I watch her head back out, I have the strangest thought about rip currents. How you don’t feel them pulling until you’re already past the break.

She glances back at me, and for a beat, there’s only this spectacular high of seeing her so happy. Then she hollers, “Get your board. I promise I won’t drown,” and turns back toward the horizon.