Sea Breeze (2 page)

“Well, Ms. Not Interested, my name is Eric, in case you’re wondering.”

He walks to the other end of the bar to take an order. I slump in my chair, playing with my straw. Out of the corner of my eye, I observe the woman at the wave pool hanging on to the lifeguard while trying to balance on the surf board. I don’t know if I can watch this. Yet, I can’t turn away.

My straw makes a suction noise. I swivel my chair back around and catch Eric watching me as he wipes down the well bottles. I nod my head in the international signal for “I need another drink,” and he starts pouring a second Sea Breeze, Stoli, heavy on the grapefruit. When I take in his cold demeanor as he approaches, I reconsider my previous behavior.

“Will there be anything else?”

“Jordan. My name is Jordan. Sorry, that was rude of—”

Bam. Boom. Smack.

My shoulders raise and I duck my head as the racket of what must have been a complete and totally painful wipeout startles me.

“Man down?” I ask, barely containing my laughter.

“Don’t look.” Eric shakes his head, a stern look on his face as if he’s witnessing a tragic accident. And now I feel guilty.

“I’m a bad person. Shit, is she okay?” I turn and see her, ass-up, her wedgie in the face of the lifeguard as he struggles to try to grab her in an appropriate way.

“They should really put a warning sign on that thing that says it’s for experienced surfers only.”

They’ve got her out of the water. She looks fine, and walks out of the pool area with her suit between her cheeks. I can’t help but burst out laughing. Eric tries to hold it in, but his shoulders are shaking.

“Have you ever ridden that thing? Is it really that hard?”

“Yes and yes. I barely made it out of there with my board shorts still on. Nope. Not gonna risk the money-maker.” He motions to his face like a game show host and a guffaw escapes me.

“Jordan, was it?”

“Yeah. Sorry for being rude earlier.”

“No problem.”

He nods toward the wave pool and I watch another victim step up to the plate. This time it’s a girl, maybe between sixteen and eighteen: Lean, strong body, wearing a bikini top and board shorts. She steps on with a shaky step, and I clutch the railing on the bar. She finds her balance, starts slowly, and rides the wave up and down the pool, back and forth. Every muscle in my body tenses as I internally cheer her on.

“Yeah!” She ends her ride and I let go a loud shout of approval with both hands up in the air. “That was awesome. Did you see her?” Eric whistles behind me, and I turn toward him, smiling as he claps his hands together a couple of times.

“Yeah. She was good. Obviously surfs regularly, but that was good.” He flashes me another smile, only this time it’s more natural. Less practiced. I finish my drink and ask for my tab. He asks for my sea pass and I dig it out of my satchel. “Do you want to purchase a beverage package?”

“Um, can’t I pay for my drinks at the bar?”

“You can, but it’s better to have a package.”

“No, I’ll pass. I don’t think I’m going to be spending much time at the bar.”

He scans my sea pass into the system. “Here you go. The charge has been added to your room.”

“Oh, okay.” I dig ten dollars out of my pocket and place it on the bar for a tip as a scream sounds overhead. I’m about to duck and cover when Eric points overhead to the girl racing across the zip line. My heart beats a little faster and instantly I know I have to try it. “See ya.”

“Bye.” I barely hear him as I race toward the end of the boat to where a line has formed.

Giddy, I fill out the waiver and hand over my sea pass. They strap me into the harness and give me all the directions as my pulse races.

It’s my turn. My bag is safely stored in the locker, and it’s only me and the sky and the ocean. Deep breath in. I grab hold of the handle with my right hand and let go a squeal when I no longer feel the floor with my feet. Wind pushes the hair out of my face as I fly over the ship, the water so far below. My speed increases, and I race over the surf bar. A combination of a scream and laugh escapes me as Eric’s head pops up and he waves to me from below.

Freedom. Yes. I finally feel alive.

Chapter Three

O
n the third day, we arrive in San Juan, Puerto Rico. I have from ten in the morning until five in the evening to spend ashore, and I’ve planned my day very carefully.

I’ve got on my comfy cargos rolled up mid-shin, my white tennis shoes for walking all day, and a black tank top. A long-sleeved button-down is in my bag in case I start to burn. I hope I’ve slathered on enough sunscreen, a bottle of which is also safely tucked away in my bag to reapply later. My hair is pulled back, and my sunglasses are perched on top of my head.

Kim is still asleep in our room. I leave some headache medicine and a bottle of water next to her bed. Judging from how loudly she stumbled around last night and the smell coming from her side of the room, she’s in for one hell of a hangover today.

I’m one of the first people off the ship. I can’t believe I’m stepping onto an island. I know it’s part of the United States, but this is still so foreign to me. I’ve never even been to Mexico. It was never a possibility.

I swallow the lump in my throat and walk down the pier, heading left toward the Casa Del Libro, according to my map. It’s a museum of rare books and old written scrolls. It’s supposed to house written mandates to Columbus from Ferdinand and Isabella from the 1400s. Unbelievable.

Walking along a huge stone wall surrounding this side of the island, I’m led to a mass of street vendors. The smell of barbequed meat and something fried mixes with the salty air, and my mouth waters. It all smells so good. My stomach growls, urging me to hurry up and choose something to try.

“Confused?”

I spin around and find Eric standing behind me, grinning. He wears long cargo pants that match mine, a short-sleeved button-down that’s open to reveal a white undershirt and what might be a hint of ink on his left pect. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

He smirks and rubs his hands together. “They do let us off the ship from time to time.”

“I can’t decide and I’m starving. It all looks so good, but I don’t know what to pick.”

“What kind of eater are you? Are you one of those “give me a salad, dressing on the side, but I’ll only eat half and take the rest home,” or...”

“No, I can eat my entire burger with fries, and go for ice cream after.”

Eric takes my elbow, causing tingles to shoot down my arm, and guides me toward one of the stands. “Great, you have to try a Tico Tripleta then. I always stop for one when I’m here. So good, and it’ll keep you full for a quite a while.”

“I still want to be able to try other stuff though, too.”

“You here for the whole day?”

“Yes.”

Eric smiles. “Don’t worry. You have time.”

At the front of the line, Eric holds up two fingers, ordering for both of us. The guy at the grill gives him a nod of recognition, and then before I can ask how much, Eric has already paid, and we’re handed our sandwiches.

“Oh, this is huge.” The bread is warm and the meat is steaming out of the sides. This could get messy.

“You’re not wimping out on me now, are you?”

“Hell, no.” I take a big bite for emphasis, and oh holy heaven on a bun, it’s so good. It kind of reminds me of cheesesteak. I grab a bunch of napkins that are really more like pieces of brown scratch paper, walk away from the food trucks to a patch of grass, and settle down to eat.

“Here, hold this. I’ll be right back.” He hands me his sandwich, and I wait, annoyed for a moment that I’m not able to eat right away. He jogs back over with two cans in his hand. “You can’t eat a Tico Tripleta without a can of Medalla Light beer.”

After he opens both cans and places mine in the grass next to me, I hand him back his sandwich. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

We eat our sandwiches in companionable silence. I get about three-fourths of the way through mine and put it down on a couple of napkins to take a break. I take a sip of my not-so-cold beer and ask, “So, where are you from?”

“San Francisco. You?”

“Las Vegas. What’s San Francisco like?”

“Beautiful, but foggy. It’s a big city that feels small if you’ve lived there your whole life. There’s so much to do and yet not enough. There are more restaurants, bars, parks, and museums than any one person could ever visit, but when you live there, you get into a routine. You go to the next new bar or lounge, try out another new restaurant, end up at your hangout with your friends, and do it all again the next day. Don’t get me wrong, I love to eat and drink, but the routine gets old, at least for me. I always liked showing people from out-of-town around, taking them to Coit Tower, the Marina, and Lombard Street, places as a native I never really needed to go. It really is a beautiful city.”

I finish off the rest of my sandwich as Eric talks. He’s so open and candid. I’m not getting any fake vibes from him now. He seems... Sweet.

“So you live in Las Vegas, but where did you grow up?”

“Vegas.”

“Really. That must have been... interesting.”

“Not really.” I look away, hoping he’ll change the subject.

“Not very talkative, are you, Jordan?”

“I can be. At least, I am at work.”

“Let me guess. You’re a bartender as well?”

“How did you know?”

“The tip. The best tippers I’ve ever seen are usually other bartenders. How long have you been doing it?”

“About four years. Before that, I worked as a waitress for a long time.”

“What are you, about twenty-five?”

I nod and take another sip of beer that’s getting warmer by the second. “You?”

“Twenty-seven. Are you done?” He motions to my pile of napkins and takes the last sip of his beer.

“Yes. Thank you. That was really good.” I stand up and dust off the back of my pants, adjusting my bag across my shoulders. “So what are you up to, today?”

“Oh, I was going to head over to The Cigar House to pick up a few cigars for a couple of friends who have to work today. It’s only a couple of blocks from here. Then I was going to wander. We could... wander together, if you’d like? Or if there’s something specific you want to see, I can take you. I know this area pretty well.”

He asks sincerely, without any trace of his flirty bartender persona. What the hell? “Sure. Let’s go get your cigars first. Boy, it’s hot. Hey, do you know where I can get one of those hats?” I point to the guy walking past us.

“Oh, a Panama hat, yeah sure. I’ll take you.”

On the cobblestone streets, the colors of the colonial style buildings with their wrought iron balconies draw my eyes upward. So beautiful and vibrant. It feels old, and yet looks new. The sidewalks are narrow, so we walk down the middle of the street. I fish a cigarette out of my pack along with my Zippo, but as soon I try to light up, Eric’s hand comes up to stop me.

“It’s actually illegal to smoke in most areas of Puerto Rico. So unless you want to pay a fine, I’d wait until we get back on the ship.”

“Really. Okay.” We get to The Cigar House and Eric makes his purchase. The place is huge and there’s a bar in back. I’m almost tempted to ask if we can go back for a drink, but I know that’s my cigarette craving talking, not me.

We walk down another block to a hat shop on the same street with a small doorway in an olive green building called Olé Curiosidades. There are handwoven hats everywhere in different sizes and shapes. A wall of ribbons is on the left, and different types of artwork line the walls closest to the ceiling overhead. A distinct odor of wood and glue permeate the air in this cramped space. Pictures and newspaper clippings fill in the gaps, and I’m overwhelmed with the choices. I want simple, fedora style with a black ribbon.

Eric shakes hands with an older gentleman he introduces as Guillermo. “My friend, the lady would like a hat, and I knew you would take care of her.”

“
Por supuesto. Hola, ni
ñ
a.
What can I get you?”

“
Hola
, nice to meet you. I’m looking for a hat.”