Beach Glass (5 page)

“KATY! KATY, WE’RE over here!” Not far from my departure gate at the airport, I hear someone calling me in a charming Swedish accent. I look around and see Brigitte Kirke, the photographer, waving at me enthusiastically.

“Ooh, it’s so good to see you!” she squeals, giving me a hug and a European-style kiss on both cheeks. When she pulls away, she’s just as I remember her, a gorgeous blonde could-be model. She introduces the hot, bearded hipster with her as her husband, William, and to their super-cute two-year-old, Nicholas. I shake his little hand and tell him that in about fifteen years, I’ll introduce him to a California babe named Celia.

When we all board, Brigitte and her family get one row in the plane, and I take the window seat in the adjacent row. The seat next to mine stays empty, so after our dinner of piping-hot something, Brigitte comes over to sit with me and talk about our cover stories—who we’ll pretend to be to hide our travel-magazine identities. “What are you going to pose as?” I ask her.

“That’s easy,” she says, looking over her shoulder at William and Nicholas. “Family vacation.”

“What about the photos?” I ask. “How will you take pictures while you’re surfing?”

“I’m good, but not
that
good,” Brigitte laughs. “Will is going to do the surfing. I’ll say photography is my hobby, and that’ll explain all the pictures I’m taking. Besides, I already know how to surf.”

Of course, she does. Brigitte’s one of those cool moms who wears chic leather jackets and skinny jeans. Her husband is a total hottie, and their kid is a complete angel. I wish I were going on a working vacation with my honey and our child. Is that too much to ask? I’d trade the ability to wear skinny jeans if I could have the rest of it.

“How about you?” Brigitte asks. “Who are you going to pretend to be?”

I’ve been feeling so sad-sacky lately, I’d love a strong persona. “How about a secret agent for the FBI?”

Brigitte, who’s worked for
Bon Voyage
before, laughs. “Not that you wouldn’t make a good spy, but it’s best to stick to something close to the truth. I mean, people don’t generally ask too many questions, but you have less chance of slipping up if it’s simple, something you’re already familiar with.”

“Then I guess I could say I’m a yoga teacher. I’ve been doing yoga so long I could sound pretty convincing.”

Brigitte nods. “Good choice. Plus guys always think yoga teachers are sexy, and surfer boys are known to be hot.” She winks at me.

“I don’t know if I’m in the mood for sexy or hot.” My throat gets tight.

“That’s right, you’re with that cute rock n’ roll boy.” Brigitte smiles at me. “How’s that going?”

I bite my lips. “Actually, we just broke up.”

Brigitte’s face falls in sympathy. “Oh, Katy, I’m sorry.” She touches my arm. “Are you okay?”

All I can do is shrug as I try to keep the fresh tears from falling. “Classic unhappy ending. He wouldn’t marry me, and I want what you have.” I gesture toward the next aisle, where Nicholas is asleep in his father’s arms.

“Is it just about marriage?” Brigitte asks. “I mean, the ring isn’t important.”

I look at the gold band on her finger, confused. “But you got married.”

“Yes, but only because I was getting more work here than in Sweden, and I needed a green card. But Will and I had been together very happily for eight years without being married. Is the ring very important to you?”

There’s that nervous tic again, where I start rubbing the fourth finger on my left hand. “It is. I know it shouldn’t be, especially since my parents got divorced. Or maybe that’s why it is important. I still want to declare my love for him and hear him declare it to me in front of our families and friends. I want to be with someone who’s not afraid to take that risk with me.”

Brigitte smiles. “Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

I smile back, but I know how unlikely that is.

FIVE HOURS INTO our five-hour flight, the pilot announces that there’s fog at the airport, and we have to enter a holding pattern. Story of my life.

But that doesn’t have to be the story of my new alter ego’s life.

Reaching into my oversized, faux leopard travel bag, I pull out my new journal. I turn to the page where I’d written all of the attributes I wanted: the confidence, the adventurous nature, the love of spontaneity. If I’m supposed to be a different person on this trip, let me be a really cool one.

I try to think up a new, exotic name, but I can totally see myself forgetting and not answering to it. So I write in pretty script,
Kate.
It’s still me, but a more mature-sounding version. Then I add a few more qualities I’d like to have.
Not afraid to speak her truth.
That’s even hard to write, let alone practice in real life, but I write it out a few more times. It becomes easier to look at, if not to feel. Then I add,
When things don’t go as planned, Kate is the kind of woman who accepts that and moves on, eagerly looking forward to new opportunities. And when they present themselves, she doesn’t over-think or hesitate, she takes them on. She embraces them. Kate practically makes out with new opportunities.

Damn. I don’t know if I can actually become this Kate person, but she sounds like someone I should at least try to hang out with. Like, for this whole week.

I’M IN THE SAFEST place in the world, the backseat of my parents’ car.

The even, steady motion of the car has almost lulled me to sleep. I’m about seven years old, and my little sister, still a toddler who looks exactly like the daughter she’ll have some day, is napping next to me. I don’t know where we’re going, and that’s okay. My capable dad is at the wheel, and Mom is reading a map that, I can see from the backseat, is a creamy, blank page. But she’s smiling. So is Dad. My parents talk to each other in soft voices. That’s funny
 . . .
I don’t remember Mom being able to speak Spanish, but I distinctly hear her ask,
¿
Estamos aqui?

It’s not my mother but Brigitte who gently rouses me from my nap. “Katy, we’re here,” she says.

Groggy and disoriented, I open my eyes. It’s nighttime, but through the window by my seat in the resort’s airport shuttle van, I can make out palm trees with actual coconuts in them, framing a large gate opening to let the van through. We pull up to a doorway festooned with dark green vines dotted with pink orchids. Brigitte’s husband and the driver get out and start unpacking our bags. My legs feel a lot stiffer than a yoga teacher’s ought to be as I climb out of the backseat.

A big man with black hair and a wide smile walks down the path to greet us. “
Hola
, everyone! Welcome to Emerald Cove. I’m Juan, the manager,” he says, shaking our hands warmly. “I heard your flight would be delayed, so I saved you some dinner. Or, I can take you right to your rooms, whichever you prefer.” Tired as we are, we vote for food because the lame meal on the plane was too long ago.

Juan takes us down a path lined with exotic plants bursting with blooms. The air here is warm and fresh, scented with ocean and flowers, and it’s soft on my skin. A moment later we’re at the main house, where we’re seated on a beautiful white outdoor veranda surrounded by lush green trees. Moonlight peeks at us through the palm fronds as we eat yummy grilled fish with saffron rice and drink chilled coconut water. Okay, I’m liking this trip so far.

After dinner, we go to the front desk to collect our room keys. Juan’s big smile has been replaced by a sheepish grin. “I hope this won’t be too much of an inconvenience,” he begins. “But I see there has been an error. Señorita McNamara—”

“Please, call me Katy—er, Kate.”

Juan nods. “Kate, the person who booked your room mistakenly thought you were arriving tomorrow, and all our regular bungalows are booked tonight. However, we do have one special accommodation that is,” he shrugs, looking for the right words, “more for an adventurous spirit.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“A tentalow,” Juan says.

I stare at him blankly. “A what?”

Juan leads me and Brigitte, who’s kind enough to come with me in case I’m too tired to make a sane decision, to a field not far from the bungalows where everyone else in our group is staying. In the middle of the field is a bunch of what look like tiny A-frame houses. As we get closer, I see that a tentalow is what would happen if a tent and a bungalow had a baby.

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.

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, consists 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.”