Page 92 of Ghost

Abby

Over my shoulder, I stared at the watery horizon and waited. When the next swell was fifty yards behind me, and approaching fast, Porter shouted.

“Paddle, Abby. Paddle like fuck!”

I looked at him, at the swell, and then did just as he’d taught me. With my eyes fixed on the shore, I paddled with my hands, attempting to match the wave’s speed. As the board started to rise, I pushed my chest off the board and quickly rose to my feet.

Ho-lee-shit.

I glanced to my left. Porter was beside me, twenty yards away, with my GoPro attached to some goofy piece of elastic that was strapped to his head.

“I’m surfing!” I screamed. “I’m F-ing surfing!”

“Looking good, baby!” he shouted.

As quickly as it began, it was over. The wave diminished to nothing. The board, and I, came to a stop in the shallow water.

After getting to a depth where I could stand up, I looked at Porter. “I want to do it again.”

“We can do it all day,” he said. “If you want.”

“Will you take that stupid thing off your head?”

“Nope. I’m recording our life together.” He gestured toward the horizon. “Let’s catch another.”

We surfed until I was no longer capable of standing. I couldn’t believe it was so easy, or that I’d waited as long as I had to attempt it. I found it humorous that it took Porter getting a handy in front of the UPS man to convince me to finally do it.

After successfully getting up on a board, I suspected my future days would be filled with nothing more than binge watching Netflix, eating, having sex with Porter, watching the sunset, and surfing.

“I’m famished,” I said as I walked ashore. “We need to eat.”

“We need to get these boards back,” he said.

“You can return that one,” I said. “I’m keeping this bad boy.”

“It’s a rental, you have to return it.”

I poked the nose of the board into the sand like I’d seen surfers do from my deck. “I’ll buy it from him. He’s not getting it back. It’s my lucky board.”

Porter did the same with his. “Buy a better board.”

I slapped my hand against the rag-tag looking piece of rental shit. “There is no better board than mine.”

He shook his head. “Fine. If it works, keep it.”

“I intend to.”

He peeled the GoPro off his head and rested it on top of the board. “Is your stomach better?”

I flopped onto the sand and let out a sigh. “It’s good enough to eat non-seafood. I swear, I felt like shit for a week. I still feel weak, but not that bad.”

Either the oysters at Goose’s or the sashimi at my favorite sushi place made me so sick I couldn’t get out of bed for five days. I was doing much better but still felt tired. The thought of anything seafood related made me feel nauseous.

“The diner?” he asked.

The Devil Dog Diner was comfort food if there ever was any.

“Pancakes sound good,” I said. “Those would be easy to digest.”