CHAPTER 16
Marina
The backyard was warm and full of morning light.
Skylla bounded across the clearing after the Frisbee Katrina threw, her black and tan coat flashing in the sun.
Marina sat on the steps, watching Ryan crouch down to intercept the dog, his hands open and ready.
Skylla veered toward him, dropped the Frisbee at his feet, and barked once.
“Traitor,” Katrina called.
“She knows quality,” Ryan said. He picked up the Frisbee and threw it hard toward the far fence. Skylla launched after it, legs stretching.
Marina felt strange. Light, almost. As if someone had taken a bag of sand off her shoulders while she wasn’t looking.
She had told him about her parents. Not the safe version—not the they died in a sailing accident version she gave strangers or casual friends.
She had told him the real story. How excited her parents had been about the new boat.
The trip that was supposed to be a simple test sail before the family's summer voyage to Baja.
The storm that changed everything. And why, eight years later, she still couldn't bring herself to let Wayfinder go.
Eight years, and she had never said it all out loud like that.
Not to Katrina—Katrina had been there, had lived it alongside her.
Not to anyone else. The words had always been too heavy to lift.
But this morning, over coffee, they had come out clean and whole, and Ryan had listened without flinching.
His eyes had stayed on her face the whole time.
He hadn’t looked away, hadn’t offered the awkward platitudes people usually did.
He had just listened, and then, when she was done, he had pulled both of them against his chest, one arm around each sister, and held them there.
Marina had felt the steady beat of his heart through his shirt.
Now, watching him throw the Frisbee for Skylla, she felt the weight of the story distributed. As if he had taken a piece of it and put it in his pocket. Not to fix it—nothing could fix it—but to carry it with her. The relief was physical. Her lungs felt larger.
After a while, Katrina checked her phone and swore under her breath. “Time flies. I need to get my stuff together.”
Ryan came back with Skylla panting at his heels. “I should head back too. Get my board and wetsuit.”
Katrina glanced between him and Marina. “You know, you don’t have to rush off.”
Ryan paused at the suggestion, and glanced at Marina. “Marina could come too,” he said.
Marina paused, her fingers pulling at a loose thread on her shorts. She was tempted, considering how good the surf was yesterday. But was she ready to do it again so soon?
But Ryan’s eager face left her no room to hesitate. She nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll come.”
Katrina grinned. “Look at that. Getting her back in the water twice in one week. You’re a miracle worker, Ryan.”
“Shut up,” Marina said, but she was smiling.
Marina quickly gathered her things, including her wetsuit and board. Soon they were saying goodbye to Skylla, who seemed to understand she wasn’t coming. The dog looked mildly betrayed by the news.
“Don’t be like that.” Katrina crouched to pat the dog’s head. “Mommy will be back soon. Keep the house safe, okay?”
“I’ll meet you there in about an hour,” Ryan said when they stepped outside.
Katrina nodded. “If you get there early, you can surf with Marina first.”
He walked them to Katrina's van, hugged and kissed each of them goodbye, then climbed into his RAV4.
The van bounced over the uneven road as they headed toward the beach. Marina sat in the passenger seat with her board balanced across her knees, the wax smell filling the van.
Katrina drove with one hand on the wheel, the fingers of her other hand tapping along to whatever indie band was playing on the radio.
“You’re quiet,” Katrina said.
“I’m always quiet.”
“Quieter than usual.”
The road dipped toward the ocean. Through the windshield, Marina could see the water, flat and blue-gray, with small waves breaking in orderly lines. It looked like a perfect day for surfing.
“I told him about Mom and Dad,” Marina said. “And it didn’t break me.”
Katrina glanced over. “Why would it break you?”
“Because it always has. Before.”
“Not always.” Katrina turned onto the beach access road. The van’s tires crunched on sand and broken shells. “You used to talk about them all the time. Remember? Before you stopped talking about everything.”
Marina did remember. The first year after, she had talked about her parents constantly—stories, memories, the sound of her mother’s laugh, the way her father tied knots.
Then, gradually, the stories had dried up.
As if each telling used up a little of the person being described.
As if by talking about them, she was wearing them away.
“I’m trying,” she said.
“I know.” Katrina parked the van in her usual spot and killed the engine. The sudden silence was filled with the sound of waves. “That’s why I’m making you surf. You need to remember who you are when you’re not being responsible for everyone.”
Marina looked at Katrina in surprise. Her little sister had grown up. “Yes, ma’am,” she answered with a smile.
"Stop it." Katrina was already climbing out and pulling the boards from the back of the van. "Come on. Your public awaits."
Marina smiled and walked around to the back of the van. She unzipped her gear bag and pulled out her wetsuit. She stepped into it, working the neoprene over her legs and hips before pulling it over her shoulders.
By the time Katrina finished changing, both of them had their boards tucked under their arms. They crossed the road together and headed down the sandy path toward the beach.
Down the beach, Katrina headed toward her student, a lanky guy in his twenties with obvious enthusiasm. Marina set down her board and stretched while watching her sister for a moment. Katrina was a good teacher. Patient in a way that surprised Marina.
Marina picked up her board and walked to the water.
The first wave she caught was small, barely worth the paddle, but the familiar surge of the board lifting beneath her feet never got old.
She cut left, rode the shoulder, and felt cool spray across her face.
The second wave was better. She took off deeper, carved a smooth turn at the bottom, and raced along the open face.
She surfed alone for twenty minutes, settling into the morning's rhythm.
The water was cold and clear. She duck-dived under breaking waves, came up blinking salt from her eyes, and paddled back to the lineup.
Her shoulders loosened with each set, and she adjusted to the swell until every movement felt effortless again.
She was sitting on her board beyond the break when she saw Ryan coming down the beach. He walked with the slight self-consciousness of someone still getting used to carrying a surfboard in public. Marina raised an arm and waved.
He saw her. His pace quickened. He dropped his towel on the sand, stretched briefly—hamstrings, shoulders, a routine Katrina had probably taught him—and then he was in the water, paddling out to where she waited.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” He paddled up next to her, already feeling the burn in his arms. “You look good out here.”
“I feel good.” She kicked her legs gently, staying in place. “I haven’t felt this relaxed in the water in a while.”
Ryan nodded. He looked at the horizon, at the sets coming in. “Those look bigger than last time.”
“They’re not. You’re just paying attention now.” She smiled. “Watch the third wave in the set. That’s the one you want.”
He watched. The third wave came, clean and peaky. Ryan paddled for it, caught it late, and managed to get to his feet for about two seconds before the wave closed out and dumped him. He came up coughing, board trailing by the leash.
“Too far back,” Marina called. “Paddle harder next time. Commit.”
He tried again. The next wave he caught properly—stood up, rode the whitewater for a good five seconds before losing his balance. When he paddled back, he was grinning.
“Did you see that?”
“I saw it. Now do it again, but try turning your shoulders toward the beach when you pop up. It’ll help your balance.”
He listened. She could see him turning the advice over in his head, applying it.
The next wave, he turned his shoulders. He stayed up longer.
Each attempt was better than the last. He stopped looking at her after each ride, seeking validation.
He started looking at the wave, at his feet on the board, at the line he wanted to take.
That was the thing about Ryan. He learned fast. He paid attention.
He didn’t make the same mistake twice if he could help it.
Marina watched him catch another wave, this one carrying him all the way to the shallows, and felt a swell of something that wasn’t quite pride but was adjacent to it.
Satisfaction, maybe. The pleasure of watching someone find their way.
Katrina joined them twenty minutes later, her lesson finished. She paddled out with the effortless efficiency of someone who had been doing this since childhood, and planted herself between Marina and Ryan.
“How’s our star pupil?” she asked.
“Improving,” Marina said.
“Let me see.” Katrina watched Ryan catch his next wave. When he paddled back, she was waiting.
“Not bad,” Katrina said. “You’re still dropping your shoulder on the pop-up. And your stance is too wide. But not bad.”
Marina nodded. “Bend your knees more. You’re too stiff.”
Ryan adjusted. The difference was immediate. His next ride was cleaner, more controlled.
“See?” Katrina said. “I’m a genius.”
“You’re something,” Marina said.
They coached him together for a while—Katrina on technique, Marina on timing and wave selection. Ryan absorbed it all, asked the right questions, and applied each correction.
Before long he was catching waves consistently, riding the face instead of just the whitewater. On one ride he even managed a small turn before kicking out, drawing cheers from both sisters.
“Alright,” Marina said eventually. “You’re doing good. Keep practicing. We’re going to play for a bit.”
“Play?” Ryan asked.
Katrina grinned. “Watch and learn.”
And just like that, they were off. Marina dug into her paddle, shoulders burning, board cutting through the water. Katrina was slightly ahead—she had always been the faster paddler—but Marina had better wave sense. They reached the lineup at the same time, both breathing hard.
“Old lady still has it,” Katrina said.
“Shut up and catch a wave.”
The next set came. They both went for the same wave. Katrina was closer to the peak, but Marina stroked into it first. She popped to her feet and heard Katrina's indignant shout behind her. She rode the wave all the way in, laughing.
When she paddled back out, Katrina was waiting. “That was mine.”
“You were late.”
“Bullshit. I had position.”
“Position doesn’t matter if you can’t paddle.” Marina was grinning now. The old competitiveness, the sibling thing, rising to the surface like a bubble.
They spent the next hour this way—stealing each other’s waves, racing for the same peak, trying to outdo each other on the same ride.
Katrina caught a long right that she rode with one hand trailing in the face, showboating.
Marina answered with a cutback so sharp that water sprayed in a perfect arc.
They were showing off, and they both knew it, and neither of them cared.
Marina felt it then—the thing she had been missing.
The pure, unfiltered joy of being in the water with her sister, no responsibility, no grief, just the board under her feet and the ocean doing what it had always done.
She was laughing. Actually laughing, out loud, the sound carrying over the waves.
Katrina was laughing too, and for a moment they were kids again, ten and twelve, their parents on the beach with a cooler of food and drinks, calling out advice that was half-technical and half-just encouragement.
The memory rose, vivid and painful, and for a second Marina felt the old hollow ache open up beneath her ribs.
Eight years. They would have been proud of her today.
Of both of them. Her father would have critiqued her bottom turn.
Her mother would have told her to stop showing off and just enjoy the ride.
She pushed the thought away. Not because it hurt—it did hurt, it always would—but because she had carried it long enough.
The grief was part of her, but it didn’t have to be the whole story.
She could miss them and still live. Still surf.
Still laugh with her sister in the water on a Friday morning because the waves were good and life was happening right now, not in some distant future where everything was safe and resolved.
She caught another wave. This one she rode all the way to the sand, kicking out at the last second with a flick of her board that sent a plume of water arcing into the air.
As she walked back up the beach, board under her arm, she noticed two guys watching from near the rocks.
One of them raised a hand in acknowledgment.
Marina nodded back. She was used to being watched in the water. She and Katrina had always drawn attention—the sisters, the local girls, the ones who could really surf. It had been a long time since she had cared enough to put on a show.
She looked for Ryan. He was still out past the break, practicing his pop-up on a small wave, focused. But as she watched, he caught a bigger one—stood up, found his balance, rode it all the way in. When he kicked out, he turned and looked back toward the lineup.
His eyes found Marina. He was too far away for her to see his expression clearly, but she knew that stance. The slight tilt of the head. The set of his shoulders. He was watching her the way someone watches something they’re proud of.
Marina smiled. She raised a hand.
Why had she stopped surfing? Because Dad was gone, and no one cared anymore?
That wasn't true. Katrina cared. She had gone through all this trouble just to get Marina back on a board. And Marina cared too. She still loved the sport. Out on the water, the grief seemed a little farther away. It was the one place where she still felt connected to Mom and Dad.
Katrina paddled up beside her, dripping. “You’re back,” she said.
Marina looked at her sister. “I never left.”
“Yeah, right. You’ve been gone for years.” But Katrina was smiling when she said it. She bumped her board against Marina’s. “Welcome home, idiot.”
They paddled out together for one more wave.