As he turned his head to look at the other surfers, I caught something familiar about him—the mischievous look in his deep-blue eyes, the caramel tan and hair streaked from hours in the sun. Could it be?
I jumped up from the picnic table. “So where exactly do you give lessons?”
“Over at Lahaina,” he said. “The water is calmer there for beginners.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m trying new things. I warn you, though. I’m scared to death.” I thought this sounded odd, and I regretted saying it immediately.
“Hey, they said I died last year. I don’t remember it, but I woke up and I just got back out there. You just have to get out there.” He pulled the board out of the sand. “Ninety-Nine Prison Street in Lahaina. Same time tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I’ll hold you to that!”
“See you tomorrow, Red.” He turned and headed toward the ocean.
I watched him walk away from me, then paddle out into the ocean, toward the horizon. He sat on the board for a moment, considering the incoming swell, before paddling deep into the thick of it. A big, violent wave picked him up and he stayed upright until the surf lost its torque, depositing him near the shore, like a stalled car. I could see the joy—the freedom—with his every movement, even as the board came to its final resting place. He idled while considering the vastness before him, then turned and paddled out again toward the horizon.