Beach Glass Page 5

  The little tent house sits on a wooden platform to keep rain and creepy-crawlies out. Instead of a door, it has tent flaps. Juan opens them to show me a surprisingly luxe interior with a comfy-looking queen-sized bed draped in light blue sheets, a white wicker nightstand, a reading lamp, and a small wicker chest of drawers. “It’s like camping,” he says, “but with the comforts of a room.”

  “Except for an indoor bathroom,” Brigitte says. Juan points to the outdoor shower and bathroom pavilion by the trees, not far away.

  Normally, I don’t think the great outdoors are so great. Well, this is really outdoors, like right in the middle of it, and not at all what I had in mind after many hours of travel.

  But that’s what old Katy would think. Kate, the adventurous girl who smiles a lot and wears cute surf gear, is game. “I think it’s great,” I say. “I’m in.”

  Juan looks relieved. “Of course, we will comp your first day,” he says. “We can even throw in an extra excursion for you being such a good sport.” Yep, that’s me, I think to myself. A good sport, someone who goes with the flow.

  I am not such a good sport when I realize I’m sharing the outdoor bathroom stall with a spider the size of a dinner plate, but I think I was far enough out in the field that nobody heard me screaming.

  AS I PUT MY clothes in the tentalow’s dresser, I give myself a pat on the back for busting out of my usual comfort zone. That was very “Kate” of me. But I have my good points, too, like the way I travel light. My luggage is just one carry-on and my giant handbag.

  Daniel, by contrast, was always an over-packer and a bag-checker, which forced us to wait by the luggage-go-round. He took so much “Just in case” and “You never know” stuff that he ended up bringing almost his entire apartment with him wherever we went. I never called him on it, because I knew why he did it. He’d spent most of his childhood being tossed back and forth between his parents after every custody battle, never knowing where he was going to live or for how long. He just got used to taking everything he had with him. And that was nothing compared to the emotional baggage he’s still carrying around.

  But as I empty my suitcase, and then my bag, I see I may have traveled too light this time. Not only have I left my alarm clock at home, I can’t find my cell phone, either. Right then, an image flits into my brain of my phone, plugged into its charger, sitting on my desk at home. Great.

  Then again, I noticed a public phone at the front office, and I have my laptop for email. Besides, who do I have to call? The website won’t be contacting me about the assignment. My family knows where I am. And my boyfriend . . . is not my boyfriend anymore.

  Whenever I went away to visit Bethy, Daniel would say, “Call the minute you touch down so I know you got there okay.” How could someone who cared about me so much not care about us having a future together?

  The ocean air here is so warm I can barely feel the tears slipping down my face.

  8.

  Emerald Cove Surf & Yoga Camp Schedule

  Day 1: Meet Your Surfboard! And your fellow campers :)

  Note: Morning yoga class is cancelled today.

  8:00 a.m.—9:00 a.m.

  Group breakfast on the veranda at the Main House

  9:30 a.m.—10:00 a.m.

  Meet instructors Carson Richardson, Evan Jennings, and Randy Caruso

  10:00 a.m.—11:30 a.m.

  Orientation & practice on the beach

  12:00 noon—1:30 p.m.

  Lunch

  2 p.m.—5:00 p.m.

  Let’s hit the waves!

  6:30 p.m.—9:00 p.m.

  Dinner on the veranda at the Main House

  “OOOOOOOOUUUUUUURRRRGGH!

  OGH OGH OOOOOOOOUURRRRRGHHHH!!”

  My heart thuds as I sit bolt upright in my bed. I don’t know what that crazy hooting sound is until I remember reading something about this area being home to howler monkeys. A howl would be positively soothing compared to these crazy monkey shouts. Looks like I didn’t need my alarm clock after all.

  Tired and emotionally hung over, I put on my glasses, thankful that I didn’t forget those, and see a bright blue piece of paper on the floor. It’s the schedule for the day’s events. Because I’m at a surf camp. In Costa Rica. Surrounded by creeping spiders and howling monkeys. In a tentalow, of all things. And there’s no yoga class, and I’m supposed to get on a surfboard today and learn how to ride waves. Suddenly, being home alone doesn’t seem so bad. Grumbling and in dire need of coffee, I shuffle over to my tent flap, unzip it, and step outside.

  Gentle morning sunlight filters through the sky, gradually pushing the dark blue night away with orange and scarlet fingers. A cool breeze caresses my cheeks and ruffles my hair and makes a soothing swishing sound through the palm fronds above me. The air smells both sweet and salty, a combination of lush tropical flowers and the ocean. I look around in wonder. It’s absolutely gorgeous here.

  Last night I hadn’t been able to see the beach, but I could hear that it wasn’t far away. Now I follow the sound of waves, walking slowly down a sandy path that’s soft on my bare feet, past thick, leafy bushes. Big pink flowers are opening up, happy to see the sun.

  When I get to the edge of the beach, I can see surfers riding the early morning waves. I’m still in my jammies, not exactly ready to say good morning, but I want to watch them to see how tough this surfing thing might be. I stand behind the trunk of a palm tree and peek out. A short, muscular dude has just left the water to join another guy, a slim reed topped with elegant dreadlocks, on the shore. Both wear baggy board shorts and are illustrated with tattoos.

  A third surfer gets up from sitting on the sand, where I couldn’t see him because of the tall grasses. He sprints toward the water like there’s something great waiting for him in there, and he launches himself onto his board. His strong arms paddle him outward quickly, and when he sees a wave forming, he heads right for it. With some graceful, physical magic I see but can’t figure out, he leaps up on his board. He’s tall with a lean, muscular build, and his moves are beautiful. Smooth, perfect balance. Even from here, I can see him smiling, beaming away, like this is what he was made for. This guy and his board and the wave are all in harmony. At the end of their dance he glides toward the shore like he doesn’t have a worry in the world.

  For a moment, I’ve forgotten everything.

  I want to watch him do that again, but when he’s done, the three start packing up and heading toward me, so I walk quickly back to my tentalow.

  Wow. He looked so free, that guy. Is that what surfing does for you? I don’t know if I’d feel that way while trying to stay on a board that’s on a fast-moving wave. But while I was watching him, his joy was infectious. I felt like everything heavy about my life fell away.

  “DID YOU HEAR someone screaming last night?”

  I blush as I climb the stairs to the veranda at the main house and overhear Brigitte’s question to William. I guess my spider-inspired shriek was louder than I thought.

  “Buenos dias, Kate,” says Juan, the manager. “How was the tentalow?”

  “It was actually fun,” I say. “I really liked it.” I’m not sure whether that’s true because the waves sang me to sleep last night or because I’m proud of myself for doing something new. Or, should I say, New Kate. This trip is already taking my mind off of Daniel, the lack of proposal, and all the other things I’ve always wanted that aren’t happening.

  I grab a freshly made mango smoothie and join Brigitte, William, and Nicholas at the communal table, where I meet the other surf camp guests. Lila, Krystal, Lucene, and her sister, Allegra, are all from Texas. They’ve arrived pre-tanned and have French manicures. They excitedly tell us they’re on a bachelorette vacation before Allegra’s wedding. Sitting next to me are Dean and Jamie from Ohio. They’re here, they explain as they snuggle into each other, on their honeymoon.

  My smoothie suddenly tastes like sludge. Our group, the people I’m going to be spending my first post-breakup week with, co
nsists of a bridal party, a pair of newlyweds, and my married friends and their kid. Fate, are you trying to kill me? I thought coming here would help me forget my new soup-for-one status. Now I have to watch Jamie ooh and ahhh over Allegra’s huge, disco-ball sparkly engagement ring, while the three bridesmaids, two of whom are wearing wedding bands, coo over little Nicholas. Our group is the evolution of relationships, with Brigitte and her family in the most evolved slot and me as the primordial ooze. I wonder if it would be wrong to get a shot of vodka in my breakfast smoothie. Yes, that would be wrong. I need two shots.

  “Hey, everybody, welcome to Surf Camp!” One of the guys I saw on the beach this morning, the dude with the curly red hair who’s built like a football player, comes over and greets us with a big smile. “I’m Randy, one of your instructors. Just wanted to see how you’re all doing and let you know that we’re setting up for your first lesson. Everyone good so far?”

  We all nod and tell him yes, we’re doing great. Well, I’m not great, but whatever.

  “Awesome,” Randy says. “So we’ll all meet down on the beach at nine-thirty. Cool? See you there.”

  AFTER WILLIAM TAKES Nicholas to the resort’s daycare center and Brigitte gets her camera equipment, we all head to the beach. “This is going to be fun,” William says, grinning with excitement. I hope it’s more fun than breakfast, or this is going to be one long week.

  We’re the last to arrive at the beach. I see Randy talking to the bridesmaids and the honeymooners. The other surfer from this morning, the lean guy with the dreadlocks, walks up to us and shakes our hands warmly. “I’m Evan, one of your instructors,” he says. “And this is Anya, who works in the surf shop. She’ll be helping you out with equipment.”

  Anya says hello and smiles, but only just. She has eyes like a cat. She’s also got a perfect body, which I can tell because she’s wearing a very tiny bikini. Can she really surf in that? Then again, she doesn’t look like the type who’d be too embarrassed by a nip slip.

  Then I hear a rich, smooth voice behind me say, “Hi.” I turn around and . . .

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Standing in front of me is a sun-tanned, tight T-shirted, board shorts-wearing, in-the-flesh surf god. About six feet and two inches of lean muscle. Hair the color of milk chocolate, lighter on top where the sun kisses his head daily. Eyes so green they probably make the ocean jealous.

  But it’s his smile that’s making me forget the mechanics of breathing. The smile is so easy, like he’s been looking forward all morning to making the person he’s beaming at feel really special. The surf god’s warm, sweet smile keeps me from getting nervous about how handsome he is. This guy doesn’t even seem to know he’s hot, which makes him even hotter. I feel like I just stepped on a live wire. And liked it.

  The surf god extends his hand. “I’m Carson,” he says, still smiling away, like something really good is happening right now.

  How long does it take for one hand to reach another in a shake of greeting, about two seconds? Well, two seconds in real time is much longer in mental time. In the space of those two seconds, I have a waking dream.

  Carson the surf god teaches me how to ride the waves. Carson sits with me on a surfboard, and we kiss as the sun sets behind us. Carson looks on with approval as I send a postcard home with one sentence that reads I’m not coming back. Carson and I teach together in this paradise—he gives surfing lessons, and I lead sunrise yoga classes. The two of us make passionate love on the beach beneath a full moon as the waves wash over our naked bodies. We walk hand in hand along the shore, picking the perfect spot for our beach wedding. Me in a white gauzy dress, Carson in a white shirt and white pants, both of us barefoot as we say, “I do.” The two of us holding our child’s hands as we lift her up over waves and she shrieks with delight.

  A lifetime of happiness, all in the space of two hellos and a handshake.

  And for an equally quick blink of time, I’m thrown. Where did all of that come from? Wasn’t I just the broken girl, all broken up over her breakup? As Carson continues to smile at me, his green eyes holding mine, my new persona comes to my rescue. I give him what feels like a very confident grin. “I’m, ah, Kate,” I say. “Pleasure.” Pleasure? Whoa, that was silky. Who am I?

  Carson takes Kate’s hand. I mean, my hand. His is big, warm, smooth, and apparently has some sort of electric current that hums from his body directly into mine. “Really good to meet you, Kate,” he says in that rich voice. “You ready to do some surfing?”

  The response is quick and witty. “That responsibility’s going to fall on your shoulders.” Kate admires Carson’s shoulders and approves. Somewhere in the back of my mind, which has been hijacked both by hot Carson and this smooth Kate person, Katy is mute and wide-eyed.

  Carson laughs and says, “Okay then, let’s get started.” And only then does he slowly let go of my hand, which he’s been holding since our initial shake. That’s only been for a few seconds, but hand time is even longer than mental time.

  He starts walking down to the beach, the rear view almost as good as the front, but I’m temporarily rooted to the spot. That feeling I had when I saw Carson surfing this morning, that feeling of lightness and freedom, leaves when he does, and I’m just me again.

  I feel an arm slide into mine, and Brigitte draws me close as we follow him. “Is it my wishful thinking,” she whispers, “or did you and our male model surfer boy have a moment?”

  “Actually, I think I just lost my mind,” I say. “And got a new one.”

  Brigitte giggles. “Looks like you picked the right place to get over a broken heart. You may have come alone, but I don’t think you’re going to stay that way for long.”

  I laugh, or make a sound that might pass for a laugh but is actually an exhalation as I remember how to breathe again. I know Brigitte’s just being nice, as is Carson, the surf god. I don’t know what happened in that weird, kind of delicious moment, but I’m back in reality. Vacation hookups aren’t my style, and I’m way too bruised from losing Daniel to even consider anything like that. Besides, now I’ve got more important things to concentrate on. Like learning how to keep from getting killed on a surfboard.

  OUR GROUP SITS at picnic tables under the shade of trees for orientation as Carson outlines what we’ll be doing this week. He, Evan, and Randy will teach us the basics of surfing, like how to identify the good waves and stay away from dangerous rip tides, how to go from lying on the surfboard to standing, and basic safety. “By the end of the week, you’ll be surfing like pros,” Carson promises. “Or at least as well as Randy.”

  Everyone giggles, especially Allegra, the bride to be, who I see sneaking wicked smiles at her bridesmaids. That can’t be about what I think it’s about, can it? Is the bride hot for the surf god? Kate, my smooth and apparently more sensible alter ego, advises me to ignore this and concentrate on the lesson.

  “We’ll only be sending you out into currents that are good for beginners,” Carson says. “But just so you know, all three of us are certified lifeguards, so in the unlikely event that something happens, we’ll know what to do.”

  I see the bride mouth the words Save me to one of her ladies in waiting. Ugh. Then again, I can’t blame her. I can barely concentrate on Evan’s lecture about identifying different types of waves because I’m also peeking at Carson. He is, as Brigitte said, model handsome, and yet he doesn’t seem cocky at all. While he’s clearly in charge, he sits quietly to the side, giving Evan his full attention even though he probably hears this lecture every week.

  Being the daughter of two teachers forced me to be a good student, so I make myself pay attention to Evan’s description of spilling waves, which are gentle and good for beginners, and the nasty pull of surging waves. “And then there are the shore dumps,” Evan says. On a dry-erase board, he draws a big, steep wave towering over a little stick figure on a surfboard, and we laugh as he adds drops of sweat and two exclamation points of fear above the
stick surfer’s head. “These waves crash hard at the shore,” Evan says, “and they’re the ones that surfers get injured in most frequently. We don’t want that to happen to you, so when you get bitten by the surfing bug this week, remember to read your waves properly before you go in. Still, a rogue wave can sneak up and grab you, so Carson’s going to talk about what to do if you get in trouble.”

  This time, I have no problem staying alert. As Carson speaks in the vocal equivalent of dark clover honey, he looks into one person’s eyes at a time, making each feel as though he’s talking only to him or her. Eventually, he makes his way to me.

  “So if you’re under water and you can’t tell which way is up—what surfers call ‘being in the washing machine’—reach for your surfboard,” Carson instructs. “It’s going to be attached to your ankle by a leash. Find that, and you’ve found your floatation device. And whatever you do,” Carson says, still looking directly at me, “Don’t panic.”

  It’s hard to imagine panicking about anything as I’m pulled into the green undertow of his eyes.

  WE BREAK FOR lunch back at the beautiful veranda at the main house. The instructors sit with us at the communal table, and thankfully we’re not talking about weddings anymore; we’ve moved on to work. In our group, we have an accountant, a computer technician, a speech therapist, and a few stay-at-home moms. Brigitte and I steal a glance at each other and smile, grateful that we came up with our cover stories ahead of time.

  Carson listens attentively to each person, asking questions about their jobs and how they like them. He’s so polite, but he seems genuinely interested. I admit I’m a little excited at the prospect of that genuine interest being directed toward me as we go around the dining table. Finally, the male model masquerading as a surf instructor turns to me. “How about you, Kate?” Carson asks. “What do you do?”