Page 298 of Devil’s Disciples

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.”

He reached for his board. “Let’s get cleaned up and go to George’s then.”

I glared. “Hold on a minute, Mister fast hands. Give me a minute to get up. Jeez. I’m worn out. It’s not every day I surf for six hours.”

He looked at his watch. “Five.”

“Six since we rented these piece of shit boards.”

He gestured toward the chipped piece of fiberglass. “The piece of shit board you’re keeping?”

I laughed. “I’m not keeping this piece of shit. If you’ve got good footage of me riding it, that’s enough. I am buying a board, though.”

Surfing would require nothing more than walking off my porch and to the beach, which was a matter of feet away from my home. It would be a new activity to add to my list of things to do with Porter on a regular basis.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go eat.”