by Suzan Colon
When he says the name Kate, I try to conjure that confident woman who spoke with him at the beach. Besides, this bit of fiction isn’t such a stretch for me as a longtime yoga student, so I sound very casual when I say, “I’m a yoga instructor.”
Suddenly, Carson, Randy, and Evan are all looking at me intently. Then Randy says, “It’s fate!” Fate? Whoa, what’s he talking about?
“Kismet, dude,” Evan agrees as he and Randy grin and high-five each other.
“What?” I ask, confused. I look at Brigitte, who gives me a small, bewildered shrug, and then back at Carson. “What did I say?”
“We have a regular yoga teacher here at Emerald Cove, but she had a family emergency and won’t be here for the rest of the week, maybe longer,” he explains. “The manager’s been freaking out trying to find a replacement.”
“And here she is,” Randy says, indicating me. “Told you, the beach gods deliver!”
“Randy, Kate’s here on vacation,” Carson admonishes gently. “She came here to relax and learn how to surf, not to work.” He looks back to me. “I mean, it is kind of an interesting coincidence. We don’t have a yoga teacher for the week, and a yoga teacher magically lands on our beach.” He smiles, which is itself an entirely magical experience. “Like a goddess stepping out of a seashell.”
Oh my beach gods, did he just make an Aphrodite reference about me?
“You’re freakin’ kidding,” one of the bridal party girls intones in an accent so nasal it could bend a spoon. “There’s no yoga this week?”
“No teacher,” says Randy, who then looks at me plaintively. “No teacher, no yoga.”
“OMG,” Allegra, the bride-to-be, groans. “I’m so stressed out about this wedding! I need to do yoga.”
Jamie, one of the honeymooners, looks at me and says, “Maybe you could teach us just one class?”
The bridal party chimes in with a twangy chorus of “Please!”
Randy starts a chant of “Kate! Kate! Kate!” that won’t let up until I say, “Okay, okay! I’ll teach a yoga class.”
They all applaud and cheer. I bask in the attention until I look at Brigitte, whose eyes are wide with questions. Probably Can you teach a yoga class? And maybe Are you insane?
I give her a tiny shrug. I got caught up in the moment. And I don’t regret it for a minute after Carson turns that magical smile on me again and says, “That’s really generous of you, Kate.”
“Well, that’s what yoga teachers are all about,” I say. “Being of service.”
The rest of the table goes back to chattering about various things that I don’t really hear or care about because Carson is talking to me. “Do you teach at one particular yoga studio or wherever you want?” he asks.
Not expecting specific questions, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Mountain Yoga, in Manhattan.” That’s where I used to do yoga, back when I had the money for classes.
“We host yoga retreats here sometimes,” Carson says, pushing his empty lunch plate aside so he can put his elbows on the table and lean toward me. “I’ve met yoga teachers who travel all over the world by taking groups of students on retreats. Do you ever do that?”
I could take the easy way out and simply say no. But having someone like Carson, a hot guy who teaches surfing in a paradise, paying this much attention to me makes me want to embellish a little. “Oh, sure, I’ve led a couple of yoga retreats, in Fiji and Belize,” I toss off, recalling the exotic locations of the stories I proofread for the women’s magazine.
I stop short of saying how lovely the Galapagos Islands are at this time of year when I catch Brigitte giving me the worried eyes. But she was right about yoga instructor being a great choice for my cover story. I can tell from the way Carson is smiling at me, a glorious thing to behold. And his eyes are all the greener being offset by his tan and by the hints of gold in his shaggy light brown hair. His lips look really soft, his teeth are perfect, and I don’t know why I’m taking more note of these details about him than I am about this place for my article.
“It’s so great to have work that allows you to travel,” Carson continues. “But that must be hard on a relationship.” He brings his eyes back to mine, and sweet Georgia Brown, there are flecks of blue within the green. “Is your boyfriend’s work as portable as yours?”
“No. I mean . . .” I pause, because this is the first time I’m officially saying this. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” Kate or Katy, that’s the truth. I take a sip of my water to mask a hard swallow.
Carson’s face remains passive, but I could swear the green of his eyes gets deeper. The smile eases across his face again. “So nothing’s keeping you from traveling the world. You can go anywhere you want, whenever you want, see and do amazing things.”
Oh good, away from reality and back to the Kate game. “Yep, I sure can,” I say, nonchalantly forking a bite of cake. In my pretend world, it’s fine to have cake at lunch, because Kate will just yoga the calories right off. “I should probably do more traveling. Teach classes here and there, live the beautiful life of a vagabond on the beach.”
“Just like me,” Carson says, his smile electric.
Swallow your cake very carefully, Katy, I tell myself, so you don’t choke, because the extremely hot man across the table just said something that sounded very flirtatious in a way that is beyond your current emotional ability to handle. I try to avoid asphyxiation via lemon pastry by smiling, nodding, and taking another sip of water. When I can speak again, I ask, “Is that what you do? Travel around, teaching people how to surf?”
“More or less,” Carson says. “Anything to avoid sitting in an office. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he says, nodding in deference to the office workers among us. “But I just can’t. This is my office.” He indicates the lush trees embracing this open-air veranda. “I want to travel, see things, and yeah,” he laughs, “live the beautiful life of a vagabond on the beach.”
I don’t know whether it’s listening to him describe this adventure-filled life or watching his beautifully shaped lips say it that makes normally unadventurous me sigh, “That sounds amazing. I mean, it is amazing.”
Carson’s gaze is the equivalent of a secret handshake, as though he and I have something wonderful in common.
WHEN BRIGITTE catches up with me after lunch, I find out I was right about at least one of her questioning looks. “Katy,” she says, taking my elbow, “Are you insane?”
“Possibly,” I say as we walk down the path toward my tentalow. “Yeah, I think I lost my mind a little. Or a lot.” Carson’s intent, sparkling green eyes could definitely drive a normally sane woman to say crazy things. Like that she’d teach a yoga class.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be harsh,” Brigitte says. “I just meant, I know you do yoga, but I don’t know whether you can lead an entire class full of bridesmaids.”
“And honeymooners and possibly surf instructors. Oh, my God.” I stop walking and clutch my head. “What have I done?”
“It’s okay,” Brigitte soothes. “Just tell them you can’t do it.”
Right. I’ll tell them I can’t do it. I can’t teach a yoga class. And I can’t surf. Can’t travel without getting all bent out of shape, can’t get a man to stay with me and share a life with me. I hate can’t. Kate wouldn’t do can’t. “No,” I state. “I can do it.” I start walking purposefully down the path again.
“But how?” Brigitte asks, trying to keep up.
“I’ve taken yoga for years. I can practically recite an entire Mountain Yoga basic class by heart. My teachers used to tell me all the time how good I was at yoga. Well, how different can taking a class be from instructing one?”
Brigitte shrugs. “I guess you’ll find out. When is the class?”
“Tomorrow morning. Randy and Evan had already told Juan, the manager, before I even got downstairs after lunch. He was thrilled.” I manage a weak smile. “He even gave me another free night.”
“You shou
ld get every night free in that bug condo,” Brigitte says, “without having to teach. I mean, pretend to teach.”
Her lack of confidence is dissolving my resolve. “Look, I’ll keep it simple. Just one class, everyone’s happy, and my cover’s not blown. Besides, how many of Bon Voyage’s writers can say they’re actually saving the website money on these trips?” That is, if I can keep them from getting slapped with a lawsuit after this fake yoga teacher accidentally breaks somebody’s neck.
WE GO BACK to the beach for our afternoon surfing lesson, and Randy is telling us about our equipment. We’ll each get beginner’s boards, which, unlike regular surfboards, are made of foam rubber. “This way, if your board konks you on the head, you’ll laugh, as opposed to when a fiberglass surfboard konks you,” he says. “Being unconscious is definitely un-fun.”
He shows us how to attach the leash to the board and to our ankles, both so we don’t have to swim after the board when it gets away from us, and so it won’t hit another surfer. “It’s important to stay connected,” Randy says. “You and your board are married for the week, okay?” The Bridal Party giggles, the Honeymooners give each other lovey-dovey smiles, and Brigitte looks at me with sympathy as I try not to groan too loudly.
“Now for the fashion portion of your equipment. You’ll need these shirts called rash guards,” Randy says, indicating what he’s wearing. “They call them that because they guard you against the abrasions you can get from pulling yourself up on the board repeatedly. Anya will give you a hand with those.”
We’re directed to a hut on the beach that serves as supply storage and gift shop, and Anya distributes rash guards to each of the campers. I end up with a grey shirt that’s kind of baggy and not terribly flattering. I’m about to ask for something that fits better when I see that the other women in our group have also gotten loose guards, while the few men among us are now showing pec cleavage. So that’s how Anya rolls. Kate just smiles, thanks Bitchy Anya, and walks away.
We’ve come to the Meet Your Surfboard part of the afternoon, and everyone lines up to get sized for the right board. William, being almost as tall as Carson, gets a long blue board, while the Honeymooners, both about my height, get shorter ones.
Then it’s my turn. While Carson looks me up and down politely, I can’t help but take in his broad shoulders, the curve of his toned biceps, his sinewy arms, his strong hands. There’s no wedding ring on his finger. I attribute the noticing of this detail to Kate, who might be interested in such a thing, while I am in mourning over my failed relationship. In my mind, Kate gently kids me for being a killjoy.
Carson reaches into the storage shed and brings out a pink board. He stands it up next to me. “Looks about the right size,” he says. “Too girly?”
I shake my head. “I’m a girly girl.”
He grins at me. “Okay then, meet your board.”
I take hold of the surfboard, which is indeed a very girly bubblegum pink. Mitigating its high cuteness factor are two thick black racing stripes that lead up to a big white star at the top. For something I never wanted, I kind of love it. I remember my dad giving names to inanimate objects, like calling his car Marilyn, and I decide to call my surfboard Estrella, Spanish for star.
Now that we have our boards, Evan tells us it’s time to talk about the proper surfing stance. “So, how do you know whether you’re going to stand on the board with your left or right foot forward?” he asks. “Easy test.” He goes behind Randy and gives him a small shove, forcing Randy to take a step forward. “See how Randy landed on his left foot? That means he’s going to stand on the board with his left foot in the front, right foot in the back. That’s called a ‘natural’ or ‘regular’ stance. As opposed to my buddy Carson here.” He pushes Carson, who lands on his right foot. “That’s known as standing goofy foot,” Evan says, “and it’s no dis, even though Carson can be a little goofy sometimes.” Carson smirks good-naturedly.
“Okay, everyone grab a partner,” Evan says. “William, can you help me out here?” Brigitte’s husband goes over to Evan. “Stand behind your partner,” Evan instructs, “give him or her a little shove, like this, and see which foot they fall on.”
The bride and her maid of honor partner up, as do the two bridesmaids. The honeymooning couple jokingly shove each other around then hug and kiss. Brigitte’s busily snapping photos. William would have been my partner, but Evan has demonstrated with him, and now they’re chatting about stance. And I’m standing alone by my board, not knowing whether I’m natural or goofy, and definitely feeling left out.
Carson notices my predicament and sprints over to me gallantly. “I don’t usually say this to women I’ve just met,” he says, “but would it be all right if I pushed you around?”
I smile gratefully. “I don’t usually say this to men who are pushing me around, but please, go right ahead.”
I turn my back to Carson and prepare myself for a shove. But instead of just pushing me, Carson rests his hand between my shoulder blades. Tingles form on my skin, moving from right under his fingertips and spreading out with the rest of his hand. My eyes start to close with the warmth of the feeling. Just then, he gives a gentle but firm shove, and I land on my right foot.
“Well, I do say this to a lot of women I’ve just met,” Carson tells me. “No offense, but you’re goofy.” I have to laugh. That’s exactly how I feel right now.
The last part of our lesson is learning how to go from lying on the board to kneeling on it to eventually standing up like a real surfer. Randy demonstrates as Carson explains. Finally, I feel like I have an advantage here! Some of these moves look so much like what I do in yoga. I’ll bet all my upward-facing dogs and balancing poses are going to help me get into position when I’m on the board and actually riding a wave, or at least attempting to. I’m so relieved. Maybe I’m not going to be a total spazz at this.
Once we see how it’s done, we get on our sand-parked surfboards and practice. “Nice form, Kate,” Carson says as he walks by.
He likes my form. And he shoved me. I hope the pink of my surfboard hides the blush I feel coming to my cheeks.
UH OH. DREAMY part of vacation officially over.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Carson says as we all gather around after our stance practice is done. “We’ll be in groups of two surfers and one instructor. You’ll study the waves, paddle out, count the sets, and when you see white water at the top of a wave, you’ll take that one and work on getting to a hands and knees position on the board. Surfers go one at a time, and your instructor will be right behind you, literally, launching you into the wave. Sound good?”
Everyone nods, and a few people say, “Yeah, let’s do it!”
I am not one of them. I’m busy looking out at the waves, which are pretty from this distance. And I’d like very much to stay here on the beach and look at them, not attempt to ride them on this board, however cute it may be.
Okay, let me, or rather Kate, try that again. Yes, I’m ready to start surfing.
People gravitate toward whichever instructor they’re standing closest to, but Allegra, the bride-to-be, zips right in front of Carson. I was already standing near him, mostly because he seemed to wander my way while he was talking.
“You guys ready?” he asks us.
“You bet,” I say.
“Always,” Allegra says heavily. I marvel at her lack of subtlety.
When we get in the warm, teal-colored water, I find out that the waves are stronger than they look. They’ve got a good pull under what seems so gentle on the surface, like the ocean is tugging us in. Allegra and I get pushed around a little as we wade out, but Carson shows us how to dip the noses of our surfboards under the waves to keep them from knocking us over. Then we get to a point where we can hoist ourselves onto the boards and start paddling.
Allegra volunteers to try to catch a wave first, which I think is brave. Gradually, though, I see it was actually a genius ploy to monopolize Carson’s attention. After wha
t feels like half an hour of listening to her squeal, “No no, not yet, not yet!” in a voice like nails on a chalkboard, Carson tells her to get ready and launches her into what looks like a perfectly easy, beginner-friendly wave. Allegra squeals and immediately falls off the board.
I stifle a giggle, hoping Carson doesn’t notice. But he’s busy making sure that Allegra, who has surfaced sputtering with her hair in her face, is okay. He tells her she’s got the hang of it and she just has to keep practicing. Then he submerges, disappearing under a wave.
Seconds later, he surfaces right next to me, looking like some handsome mythical sea creature. “Kate the Great,” he says, smiling and holding the board with his hands on either side of my leg.
Of the nicknames I’ve been given, like Daniel’s “Pretty Katy” and my sister’s “Scaredy Kat,” I like Carson’s best.
His eyes, rimmed with black lashes that are sparkling with seawater, are so green it’s ridiculous. “Did you get the idea of what we’re trying to accomplish here?” he asks. I nod. “Okay then, let’s get into position.”
That means me lying on the surfboard on my belly, waiting to be launched into a wave by Carson, who’s holding the back of my board, so his two main views are of my feet and my butt. I’m so grateful I gave myself a decent home pedicure before I came here and that I had the sense to buy cute and butt cheek-covering swim shorts.
“Kate, what can you tell me about the wave sets?”
“Um . . . sets of three?” I’m totally guessing here.
“Good job,” Carson says. “So, next set, if the third wave has white water on top of it, that’s your wave. Try to get to your hands and knees. Okay?”
I give him the thumbs-up. He surprises me with a quick squeeze on my ankle—and not the one with the thick leash band around it.