CHAPTER 8
Marina
Marina still wasn't sure why she was doing this.
The surfboard hummed softly against the roof racks as she drove toward the beach. Her wetsuit and towel lay in the back of the Corolla. Katrina had somehow turned a request into a commitment.
Could you teach him? Please?
Marina still wasn't convinced she'd actually agreed.
She could have backed out that morning. Skylla had taken forever to find the perfect spot to do her business. She could have blamed the dog. Or said she'd slept badly. Or simply admitted she wasn't in the mood.
Instead, she left the house earlier than necessary. She parked at a secluded spot near the beach, unstrapped her board, and changed into her wetsuit beside the car.
The walk down the narrow path felt strangely familiar. The ocean spread out below, calm and silver beneath the early morning light. Only a handful of surfers were already in the water.
She carried the board to the edge of the surf and paused.
It had been at least a month since she'd last paddled out. Maybe two.
The first step into the water stole her breath. The cold climbed through the wetsuit, wrapping itself around her legs before fading into something that felt almost comforting. She waded deeper, climbed onto the board, and began paddling.
With a few strokes, the familiar rhythm came back. Her shoulders relaxed, and her breathing steadied. The board moved beneath her, rising and falling as if it had been waiting for this moment. She realized how much she had missed it.
She had missed the scent of salt and kelp, the stillness between the waves, and the ocean’s rhythmic pulse beneath her.
For a fleeting moment she was fifteen again, paddling beside her father while he pointed toward the horizon and explained how to read the sets before they arrived. He never seemed to look at the water directly. Somehow he simply knew what it was about to do.
The memory tightened around her chest. It always did.
Ever since he died, surfing had become tangled together with grief. Every time she paddled out, she found him waiting somewhere in the water, smiling, laughing, calling out another piece of advice she would never hear again.
Some days the memories were too heavy, and she never paddled out at all. She glanced toward the beach and considered turning back. She shouldn't be here. She should be at home with a book, Skylla stretched out at her feet.
And then she lifted her eyes toward the lineup. Ryan was easy to spot.
He sat awkwardly on his new board, turning too late for one wave, then too early for the next. He missed one completely, wiped out on another, climbed back on without the slightest hesitation, and paddled out again.
Marina smiled despite herself.
He didn't appear embarrassed. He didn't glance around to see who might have witnessed yet another failure. He simply climbed back onto the board and tried again.
Another wave rolled in. Ryan turned toward the shore and began paddling.
Too late, Marina thought. He'd missed his window.
But he didn't give up. Instead of resigning himself to another failed attempt, he dug deeper, his strokes growing faster and stronger.
He's still going for it. The board surged forward, and Ryan sprang to his feet.
For several glorious seconds he stayed there, arms spread for balance, surprise written across his face. His delighted shout carried across the water before he toppled into the foam.
Marina blinked.
She had been certain he wouldn't make it. Most beginners would have stopped paddling the moment they realized they were late. Ryan hadn't. He had simply worked harder.
He rode only a few seconds before falling, but the grin that broke across his face when he surfaced made her laugh.
Maybe that was what Katrina had seen, or maybe it was what Marina had nearly missed.
She found herself smiling at him before she realized she was doing it. No. She couldn't let herself feel this way—not now.
She was here because of Katrina.
Her sister had not stopped talking about Ryan for two days. She wanted him to fall in love with surfing. She wanted him to keep coming back to Cliff Harbor. Katrina hadn't said it outright, but Marina understood what she hoped might happen.
Marina wanted that too—for Katrina. That was why she had come.
Yet, watching Ryan paddle back out with that ridiculous grin still on his face, she couldn't help asking herself a question she didn't want to answer.
Had she really come only for Katrina? Or had some part of her wanted to see Ryan again?
She glanced toward the beach. She could still leave. Ryan wasn't expecting her. She could tell Katrina she never found him.
But that would be cowardly. And unfair to Katrina.
She took a slow breath, turned her board toward him, and began paddling.
Whatever happened after today belonged to Katrina.
Another wave rolled through the lineup.
Marina angled her board toward it and paddled.
The takeoff came as naturally as breathing.
She popped to her feet, carved down the face of the wave, and let instinct take over.
The months away from the water had left a little rust in her timing, but the rhythm returned almost immediately.
She cut back once, climbed toward the lip, and launched into a small aerial.
The landing wasn't perfect, but it was clean enough to carry her down the line before she kicked out.
She heard a couple of whistles behind her.
When she paddled back outside, Ryan was watching.
She smiled despite herself and drifted closer until they floated only a few feet apart.
“You’re doing good, Cowboy,” she said.
He blinked as if it took him a moment to recognize her. “Marina?”
She smiled. “Hey.”
His expression was almost comical. For a second he simply stared at her, as though he'd been expecting anyone in the world except her.
A laugh escaped before she could stop it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. “I thought... after yesterday...”
He trailed off, clearly remembering she'd declined when Katrina suggested she teach him.
She shrugged. “My sister finally convinced me.”
“I see.” He grinned, and she had the distinct impression he was silently thanking Katrina. “Katrina wasn’t kidding. You’re a champ.”
Marina felt heat creep into her cheeks.
“I’m rusty.”
“That was rusty?”
She shrugged again, though she couldn't quite hide her smile. “You want some tips?”
He nodded immediately.
She paddled a little closer and showed him where to place his hands before popping up.
Then she demonstrated the motion on her own board, slowing everything down until he could see each movement separately.
Ryan watched with complete concentration, asking questions whenever something didn't make sense.
He wasn't embarrassed to admit what he didn't know, something she found unexpectedly refreshing.
They spent the next hour chasing waves together.
Whenever Ryan caught one, Marina watched from outside, calling out small corrections between rides.
She reminded him to keep his knees bent, shift his weight forward sooner, and trust the board instead of fighting it.
Every few attempts she saw another piece fall into place.
His timing improved. His stance steadied.
Even his paddling became more efficient.
More than once she caught herself smiling after one of his rides. She couldn’t help it. He celebrated every small success as though he'd just won a championship. And she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen someone enjoy learning something so completely.
The morning slipped by. One by one, the other surfers headed for shore until only a few remained. The sun climbed higher, warming the water and burning away the last of the morning chill.
Marina finally turned her board toward the beach. Ryan followed.
They carried a small wave onto the sand, stepped off their boards, and dragged them above the tide line. Marina peeled the Velcro cuff from around her ankle. Ryan did the same, breathing hard, his arms trembling slightly from the effort.
She smiled to herself. He looked exhausted. He also looked happier than he had the first night she'd met him at the Beacon.
Marina reached behind her neck and found the zipper by feel. It was the same routine she had gone through hundreds of times after a morning in the water. She tugged it down, peeled the wetsuit from her shoulders, and worked one arm free, then the other.
Only then did she feel Ryan's eyes on her. She turned instinctively and caught his gaze—intense and focused. A flicker of self-consciousness washed over her.
For a heartbeat, her hands stopped. The wetsuit hung around her waist. Perhaps she should pull it back up, but it would be ridiculous. She was wearing a bikini, no different from what half the women on the beach wore. There was nothing unusual about changing out of a wetsuit on the sand.
So she continued. Her hands shook a bit, and heart started to race.
When she bent to push the wetsuit down over her hips, she noticed the way his breath hitched—an effect she found both thrilling and unnerving.
Straightening up, she continued to work the wetsuit down her legs. As the fabric fell away, she felt liberated, her body free from the constraints of the suit.
She glanced at Ryan again, catching a glimpse of the flush on his cheeks. His reaction stirred something within her—a mix of confidence and nervousness.
She tossed the wetsuit onto her board and sat down next to him. She kept her eyes on the ocean, pretending to observe the surfers.
But she was aware of him. She noticed him stealing glances at her, and each time she caught one, her heart fluttered. She kept reminding herself that she shouldn’t feel this way, that it would be betraying Katrina. But her body had a mind of its own. It just kept reacting.