I plunged beneath the board, my back skidding the ocean floor, my throat rejecting an alien liquid. Sand swirled about my head. I shot to the surface. Knee deep in the breakers, I tugged on my shorts and heaved quarts of seawater from both lungs.
"How was that?" I asked, half choking.
"Simply horrible!" yelled Steve. He mounted the board in roughly the same manner as a walrus would mount a balance beam. Ransom repeated his instructions, the sloppy drops continued, and something was nibbling my foot.
Steve paddled hard, pushed deep into the next wave but barely moved. He gave the impression of a stalk of corn cut at the base-falling right where it begins.
"Ya got no momentum, bro."
"I got no coordination," he said, climbing back aboard. "One more try?"
"Go for it," said Ransom.
But the waves had become moody, evasive. Gradually, the rain stopped, while to the west, above the rooftops and between two crow's nests, the sun peeked through again.
"Hold the board straight," said Ransom, pointing it at the shore. "Like this."
"Like this?" asked Steve, realizing his plight.
Thrust forward by the next wave, he suddenly was hidden by a wall of water. The wave shrunk. Steve wobbled. Then his right foot found its place, his left came up and around, but the yellow board tilted.
I had seen fraternity drunks fall into a bush more gracefully. Shoulder and head hit first, legs at an odd angle to the torso. Steve disappeared for a moment, a second wave washed over, and, riderless, the board slid nose-first into a crumbling sand castle, palms and psalms covered in mud.
I gave him a two for artistic presentation, zero for technical merit.
Ransom had the board under his arm as darkness approached, the beach empty, our stomachs growling, my toes shriveled. Steve hacked into his towel, and the soft sand gave way beneath our feet as we trudged between the dunes.
"So," said Ransom, without looking at either of us, "you guys golfers or what?"
Summer's steam rose through the asphalt of Seaspray Drive. Ahead, dozens of single folk gathered in front of house number two. They were cleaned up and polished; we were soaked through and shriveled.
From underneath the pink house, the lime Caddy backed heavily over crushed shells. Inside the car sat Darcy, Allie, and three guys we didn't recognize.
"I thought surfers got the girls ..."
"Not a problem," said Ransom, as if he could care less.
We quickened our pace, and without breaking stride, Ransom reached over and pulled my hair into a blond spike. Three steps later I returned the favor, and after mild cajoling we convinced surfer Steve to spike his own, just for uniformity.
Darcy stopped in the street and waited till we arrived at Sherbet's hood. "Nice hair," she said. "We have reservations for fifty at Inlet Restaurant. We'll save you guys a seat if you'd like to join us."
"Might just do that," said Steve.
"How far is it?" I asked, admiring her passenger.
`Just depends," said Allie, who tightened her seat belt, then turned and winked at her driver. Darcy floored it, her rear tires flinging gravel at Ransom's surfboard.
"Never ask them that question," said Steve, scolding me amid the road steam.
"Unbelievable," mumbled Ransom. He leaned over to check his board for nicks.
Dripping into our beach house, I saw our gray-paneled living room now filled with various sleeping bags and shaving kits. We decided hot showers, clean shirts, and combed hair would serve us well. We were out the door in eight minutes.
Not a world record, but still faster than any three women.
Jutting out over salt marsh, the restaurant offered distant views of an inlet, breaking waves flashing streaks of orange, and firelight on the horizon. Across the rear of the restaurant stood an open-air porch, where four long tables had been pulled together to accommodate us.
The lights were soft, the mood jovial.
Hardy scents of seafood filled the air, and I squinted to see the far end of our group, the porch buzzing with conversation. Young waiters moved among the fray, refilling baskets of bread and reciting specials as if timed on a stopwatch.
Strangers nodded hello.
And hello to you, stranger.
Seats were saved for us-backs to the ocean-and I was heading for the buffet when Stanley said, "Let's bow our heads." Standing in the doorway with a bowed head would be uncomfortable, so I let the crew bless the shrimp and scallops without me.
The buffet stretched out across the middle of the restaurant, where an aquarium played host to a dozen lobsters, their pinchers clamped, their fate certain. Our line moved forward; I took a plate, then heard singing ahead at a table for ten. Bad singing, but singing nonetheless.
I recognized it-the same tune sung at sporting events when the home team is way ahead. A bearded man in a Harley T-shirt led the ensemble. "Nah-nah-naah-nah, hey-hey-hey, goood-bye." The chorus repeated and kept repeating. I stepped out of line for a better view and saw the cook, a large Greek-looking man in a floppy white hat, standing beside the aquarium. He directed the singing like a symphony conductor.
Voices reached a familiar key, the buffet line joined in, and as a tenor, I'll admit there's a Southern charm in singing eulogies to the seafood.
With our chorus growing louder, the cook rolled up a sleeve and reached in past his elbow. Twelve defenseless crustaceans fled to one side. He grabbed one at the waist, then hoisted the dripping creature overhead to our loud applause. The cook grinned, performed a perfect military about-face, and it was off to the boiling heat, lobster doom, where there is weeping and gnashing of claw.
I was reaching for more crab legs when the edge of her plate poked my rib.
"Jay," said Allie in her pale-yellow sundress and worn leather sandals, "I mighta given you a wrong impression earlier. I was asking about Steve for Jill, another girl who's staying with us. She's a bit shy."
Two scallops slid off my plate as I managed a weak, "Oh."
She had her hand in the shrimp now, and sadly for a guy who makes his living with his mouth, I could not think of anything to say. My plate was full, and her scent was lingering above the crab legs, so I did as all men do in such predicaments: I began picking up shrimp one at a time from the buffet, stacking them slowly in a pyramid until the words came.
"Wanna throw fried ones or boiled ones?" she asked, placing hers carefully in a circle.
"Let's stick with the low-cholesterol stuff."
"Do you feel sorry for the lobster?"
I plated two more scallops. "No, I think he was predestined."
She scanned the buffet, a silly smile on her face. Not another morsel would fit on my plate. I turned to walk back to my seat, and a single fried shrimp bounced off the back of my head.
Seated next to me, Steve fumbled with his crab legs while most of the females, including Darcy the Leadfoot, dined twenty plates away. Conversation gave way to more eating, and I could not recall any seafood like this in Dallas.
In Dallas, seafood had a rubbery texture.
I borrowed the claw-crusher tool from Steve, demolished a crab, then looked the length of the table. Ransom had squatted down beside a petite, sandy blonde, his arm around the back of her chair. She laughed and looked up into his eyes. He rubbed her back.
I elbowed Brother Steve. "Doesn't take him long, does it? We really have to learn to surf."
"He's married," said Steve. "That's his wife."
"Honest?"
Steve tore open a sugar packet and dumped the contents in his tea. "He's married to her. She's staying with the women and he's staying with us."
Ransom returned with his own plate overflowing, looking very much the content surfer dude.
"You're married?" I asked, still not convinced.
He reached for the cocktail sauce. "Yeah. Six years. I know this sounds weird, but there weren't any extra bedrooms, so we decided we might appreciate each other even more if we just spent a weekend as singles again. Alt
hough we're secretly lusting for each other from the ends of the table."
By this time I was convinced that the entire religious community in South Carolina was wacko and that I should just eat my seafood. But then Ransom passed the sauce and promised to give me some relational advice once we got back to Greenville.
Across from us, gabbing away, Lydia looked miniscule seated next to a big Italian guy-military haircut, honker of a nose. He introduced himself as Joseph Caruzzi, the catcher for a minor league baseball team, but said we should call him Joe.
Big Joe's pyramid dwarfed mine.
"Need the sauce," he demanded, centering his bowl.
"In gumbo?" Steve asked.
"Gross," said Lydia. And she scrunched her nose.
Exhausted waiters refilled our glasses. Big Joe said he just had to hear everyone sing to the lobsters again, so he stuffed two bucks in a waiter's shirt pocket and asked him to bring out a huge one.
The chorus started over with the Harley guy, who seemed to have forgotten the words. The cook waved him off, took control, and our porch tables willingly joined in. But only for one verse-in midchorus Stanley jumped up, saying this was not a very spiritual way to behave.
Heads dropped. Women frowned. Stanley peeled his shrimp.
"He ruins my lobster song again, and I'll toss him in the tank," said Joe, visibly peeved.
I agreed with Joe's assessment of Stanley and told him that what with the ridiculous cost of lobsters today, a man should be entitled to a full chorus of the seafood eulogy, especially since some nature-loving songwriter went to all that trouble to compose the tune.
He said thanks Jay, and I said welcome Joe.
The waiter said too bad we stopped singing 'cause we sang much better than the sunburned Harley people, and would anyone care for pie.
"No sir," said Steve to the waiter. "No room for dessert."
"And will this be on one check or ... ?"
"Separate."
The waiter scanned our group. "All separate?"
"Except for me," said Ransom. "Charge two buffets to my bill."
The waiter returned five minutes later and called us to attention. "The manager decided in the interest of time not to worry over who had an entree versus the buffet, so if everyone will just pay sixteen dollars at the register, we'll call it even. And thank you for dining with us."
"Does the sixteen bucks include my lobster?" asked Joe, reaching for his wallet.
"No sir, lobsters are twenty-five bucks extra."
"Tourist trap."
With the group departing, Steve and I commingled our tips and let Ransom Delaney drive the jeep back home in exchange for more surfing lessons.
A full moon reflected silver and joined the phosphorous in the waves to light the beach. The dark clouds from our surfing hour had passed, the ocean had calmed, and the women leaned in toward the fire.
Steve bent and extended six hangers, and we passed them around. Embers crackled and spit while whiffs of burning wood merged with salt air. The heat came and went with the occasional breeze, but mostly it angled away from me as I tried to get my rear end comfortable on a log.
"Need another marshmallow," said Darcy, now donning a gray Carolina sweatshirt. She pulled her blonde mane over one shoulder, then readied her hands like an outfielder.
I reached in the bag, flipped one underhanded across the fire, and surprisingly for a rich girl, she caught it and threaded the thing onto her hanger.
"Toss me one, dude," said Ransom, and he threaded one on for his wife.
Her name was Jamie, and she rested her head against his shoulder as they sat on a smaller log, flicking sand with their toes. It was a log built for two, a love log. Ransom inspected a crispy mallow, allowed it to cool, offered her the first nibble. But soon her eyes began to shut and her hanger began to droop, stirring skyward a puff of orange-and-gray ash.
Ransom gently removed the hanger from her fingers and set it in the sand.
"She's a morning person," he said to no one in particular.
Two marshmallows occupied my own hanger as the flame shadows jumped across faces. A medium-brown edge was my goal. But as I watched a plane pass over the ocean, I, too, committed the ancient sin of droopage, then pulled the hanger back to see the blob on the end blackened, a drip of creamy innards seeping from the bottom. I held it aloft, allowing the morsel to cool against the night sky. A gooey planet. Sliding from the hanger, the stickiness eased and oozed between my fingers.
I looked back across the flames. Her arm was already cocked.
To be honest, I really didn't think she would do it-the incident with the tomato had been spontaneous; the shrimp-to-the-head a bit flirtatious. This, however, had no real basis other than plain of consistency.
But sitting there in her sundress, next to Darcy, she never hesitated.
In midflight, her white missile had that imminent look of fate, like when two grocery carts are about to clang together-no time for dodging. My return volley was launched from relative blindness, her most accurate glob already matted to my forehead and my blond bangs.
"You people have gone loony," said Darcy, as if such juvenile behavior were beneath her.
"Good fastball," said Steve, but he was not speaking to me.
Glancing again across the flames, I saw Allie Kyle wiping furiously at her hair, just above the left shoulder.
"See, honey," said Ransom to his wife, "we missed a lot by marrying so young."
"Hmm-umm," she said, snuggling into him again.
I walked over to the water. Knee deep in the breakers, I scooped handfuls of seawater to rinse away the globs, but the mess remained stubborn. One complete head dunk, though, and most of it rubbed out.
I was using the bottom of my shirt to dry off, wondering if Baptist women could throw like Presbyterians, when she walked up beside me.
"Truce?" she said, removing her sandals in the moonlight.
"Until breakfast, at least."
She stepped toward the water. "I'm making scrambled eggs."
With my dignity gone, sunken in a tidal pool, I figured there was not much left to lose. "Wanna take a walk?"
She hesitated, then pulled a hand through her wet hair. "Okay, but just a short one."
In a slow, get-to-know-ya stroll, we passed the last oceanfront house, North Litchfield Beach now dark and inviting. A steady, subdued crash of waves echoed from our right as the water licked the sand in front of us, then retreated.
She waited for me to speak first.
"Steve tells me you spent some time in South America."
"Yes," she said, looking straight ahead. "Almost a whole year. Was life-changing. Went down there to teach and to minister but ended up being ministered to."
"How do you mean?" I asked, glancing at the bottom of her sundress, the pale yellow now a deeper shade from the ripples splashing against it.
"In the U.S., I get caught up in the pace, the materialism, but down there in Ecuador we'd sit around and talk at night. No one had a car to drive, and even if someone did, nobody would care who drove what or how much they made. We'd even walk down the dirt road to visit neighbors, which I never do here. I got away from all my stuff and realized that people are more important."
I dragged a toe in wet sand. "I kinda like my stuff, but I could probably leave it for a couple weeks."
Moonlight caught her frown. "A couple weeks? I'm thinking about selling everything, maybe even my house. They want me to come back, maybe for good, maybe starting with summer semester, although down there the seasons all blend.... But I could end up somewhere else just as well."
We walked a good ways before I thought of what to say next. "Pardon the ignorance, Allie, but what exactly does a day consist of on the mission field?"
She didn't answer immediately, just stared up at the sky for a moment, lost in recollection. "Mostly different forms of the stereotype. Teaching kids, counseling women, sharing the gospel, and eating lots of weird food. Our little village was quite remote."
"How remote?"
"Rainforest remote. Think monkeys, lush vegetation, and no Internet access." She picked up a clump of seaweed, twirled it like a sling, and let fly into the breakers.
We walked farther, and our arms brushed. The balmy interview resumed. "Sounds prehistoric. You fluent in Spanish?"
"Si, senor. I taught English to twenty children, most of them orphans. And I've learned just enough to help deliver an occasional baby. So, tell me about the stockbroker biz."
I answered without consulting the heavens, South America, or seaweed. "It's hectic, no day is ever the same, and you have to console the crybabies. But it's financially rewarding ... and you get weekends off."
"When you get rich, how about sending me some? I gotta start tallying my support pledges next week, and I'm way short."
"You have to raise it all yourself? There's no corporate-"
"It's nonprofit. Support-raising is a huge burden. Though I wish someone would pledge a weekly cheeseburger."
I'd known her half a day, and already I wanted to hold her hand. But no way.
"Consider it pledged."
She swung a sandal on each thumb, her hair beginning to dry in the warm ocean breeze. "I also kept a journal while I was down there. Turned it into a collection of short stories. Sent it off to three publishers and just got back the rejections."
"Too bad. Haven't seen many food-chucking missionary memoirs at the bookstore."
She dropped back one step, like she was about to kick wet sand at my legs but had reconsidered. "They said I used some inappropriate language."
"Foul?"
"Not exactly. You do any writing?"
"Only e-mails," I replied, watching the lights of Myrtle Beach flicker in the distance.
"I love playing with words, making up poems from scratch ... like literary biscuits."
Wedged between my toes, a shell fragment had me kneeling on a dark beach, Allie pausing at the shoreline, looking down amused as I tried to de-wedge the irritant.
Flabbergasted: A Novel Page 4