Текст книги "Pulled Under"

Автор книги: Michelle Dalton

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

“I do appreciate it.”

Pretty soon everyone else makes their way up onto the roof, and we all enjoy some yummy teriyaki chicken skewers that Mickey’s husband picked up at Chicken Stix, a kebab shack a couple blocks down the beach. As you’d expect from a Surf Sisters get-together, it’s pretty low key and mellow. The funny thing is that no one is talking about the one thing that’s on everybody’s mind. Then, a few minutes before the fireworks are scheduled to begin, Mickey takes a sip from her glass of wine and addresses us all.

“We’d like to thank you for coming tonight. Back when Mo and I were young girls—way before there was an actual deck up here—our dad would bring us out on the roof every Fourth of July. We’d lie with our backs against the wooden shingles and watch the fireworks go off. We thought we had the best view on the island, and I think you’d have to agree that we were right. So, as we celebrate this tradition one final time, I’d like to propose a toast to the man who started it.”

She holds up her glass, and everyone else holds up whatever they’re drinking. (For me it’s sweet tea.) “To Steady Eddie.”

“Steady Eddie,” everyone says with enthusiasm.

“King of the Beach,” adds Mo.

It’s the last part that punches me in the gut. I think about the Surf City float in the parade with its King of the Beach sitting on a throne surrounded by Kayla and her friends. It represents the opposite of everything that Steady Eddie embodied. The opposite of everything I believe in. This is the thought that nags me as we watch the fireworks.

The show lasts for about twenty minutes and really lives up to its billing as spectacular. I love the way the colored lights reflect off the water. Standing on the roof, I see that the boardwalk sparkles almost as much. It’s great, but even still, I can’t get rid of that nagging feeling.

“What are you thinking?” Ben asks toward the end.

“That it looks beautiful,” I respond.

“No, I mean, what are you thinking about?” He gives me a look that says he knows something is on my mind. “Be honest—is it a problem that I’m here?”

Apparently, I’m not only bad at reading signs but also at giving them.

“Absolutely not,” I say, trying to speak loud enough so that he can hear but soft enough so that no one else can. “It’s amazing that you’re here. Amazing.”

“Are you sure? ’Cause it doesn’t look like it.”

“I’m more than sure. It’s just that I’m upset about all of this.” I gesture to the others on the deck with us. “I wish there was something I could do.”

He goes to say something, but then he stops himself. Instead, he just looks at me and smiles. Then he puts his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me in closer for a moment.

Maybe it’s the nostalgic display of fireworks, or maybe it’s the wonderful realization that I, shy Izzy Lucas, am cuddling with my fabuloso boyfriend—I still can’t believe that part—that makes me wonder what it would be like if I actually was the type of person who had the courage to compete in the King of the Beach. Better yet, what if all of us girls entered and shredded the waves as one last great send-off for Surf Sisters?

“What are you smiling about?” Ben asks.

I didn’t realize I was smiling, but I dare not even say it aloud. Instead I answer, “Nothing . . . everything.”

Moments later, the grand finale starts to blanket the sky with color and light, and the noise drowns out any possibility of him pursuing the subject further. Surprisingly, I can’t shake the daydream of all of us competing. As a team. As Surf Sisters.

“Hmmmm,” I say out loud for no particular reason.

As I look at the fireworks, my mind keeps turning it over. Then, when the final ribbons of color fade into the night and the smoke and smell of powder waft over us, I wonder if this is something we should do. I have found a boyfriend. I have marched in a parade. Could I possibly compete in the King of the Beach? Could all of us? We could go out with a fight. Our very own grand finale.

The party has reached its end, and people are beginning to hug one another and say good-bye. I start to breathe faster as I wage an internal debate. There’s no way to go to the register to get a verdict on this one. I have to make this decision all on my own. And as it is with most decisions you dread, the difficulty isn’t so much figuring out the answer, which is obvious, but deciding if you can face the consequences.

“Wait!” I say as the others start to leave. They all stop what they’re doing and all eyes turn to me. I freeze for a moment as I reconsider my decision one last time.

“What’s the matter, Iz?” asks Mo.

“What’s the matter?” I say, incredulous. “The store’s closing. That’s the matter.”

Her eyes are watery and consoling at the same time. “I know, sweetie.”

“We can’t just let it happen,” I say. “We can’t just keep coming to work and act like we’re happy as we count the days until it’s over. It’s not fair to Steady Eddie and it’s not fair to you.”

Mo wraps me in a hug as tears run down her face. “I don’t know what else we can do,” she says.

“I know,” I say with a deep breath. Then it hits me. I want to do this for Surf Sisters, but I also want to do it for me. I’m tired of standing off to the side. I’m ready to be noticed. “We can win the King of the Beach and get your trophies back.”

Over the next week I develop a new routine in my daily life. Today fits the profile perfectly. It starts in the morning when I wake up early and head to the beach with my surfboard under my arm. This may not seem like a change, considering that I surf most mornings anyway, but now my approach is totally different. First of all, these sessions are not about finding my Zen place and becoming one with the ocean. They are full-out training sessions. I’m working to build endurance and strength. I’m practicing technique and I’m challenging myself to develop the moves I’ll need to do to get the judges to notice me.

Secondly, I’ve started to surf the pier. Every break, which is what surfers call a specific location, is unique. The more you surf it the better you know its secrets. The King of the Beach is held at the pier, and by the time the contest begins, I want to know each and every inch of it. The problem with surfing there, however, is that it’s the most popular break on Pearl Beach. This means there are always other surfers there, even in the early morning hours, and I have to work on my “surfs well with others” skills.

The other girls from the shop are coming down to the pier too, but we are keeping our plans on the down low. One thing—the only thing?—working in our favor is the element of surprise. Surf City has walked away with the team championship every year for more than a decade. On the morning of the competition, their only concern will be figuring out which one of their guys is going to win the individual crown. We don’t want them to be just overconfident about the team title. We want them to think it’s automatic.

That means we don’t arrive together. We don’t wear any Surf Sisters gear. And we never talk about the contest. In fact, we don’t really talk much at all. Well, except for one of us.

“So,” Sophie says as we sit side by side straddling our boards and waiting for the next set. “Have you told Ben that you love him yet?”

I don’t even dignify this with so much as a glance in her direction.

“It’s obvious that you feel that way,” she continues. “You love, love, love him.”

“Stop it,” I say, still trying to ignore her.

“Have you said that you can’t imagine being without him and that you’re going to follow him back to Wisconsin so you can live on a big dairy farm together?”

“Do you mind?” I say, finally turning to her. “I’m trying to surf here.”

She nods. “And I’m trying to make you better at it.”

I flash her my skeptical eyes. “How does annoying me make me better?”

“I’m not only annoying you, I’m also teaching you the importance of not letting anyone distract you. You know . . . like I just did.”

“What are you talking about?”

Before I even finish my question, she has turned and is paddling. By the time I figure out what’s happening, it’s already too late. There’s a beautiful wave coming, and she has completely shut me out and stolen my position. Normally I surf by myself or with my dad, and there are no distractions. That won’t be the case during the King of the Beach, as Sophie reminds me fifteen minutes later when we’re back in the lineup.

“There’s no margin for error,” she says. “Wave selection plays a big part in who wins and who doesn’t. You can’t afford to miss any good ones because you’re distracted.”

I nod my agreement and remind her that we need to keep the talking to a minimum.

After my morning session I go home and crash in my bed for a power nap. Of course, before I do that I check to see if I have any texts from Ben. Even when he’s working with the campers, he usually manages to send off a steady stream during the day.

After my nap I head in to Surf Sisters and work my shift. Mickey and Mo have put me on the same shift almost every day. They said it was to help me establish my workout routine, but I think secretly they’re trying to have my hours line up with Ben’s as much as possible. (See what I mean? They totally rock.)

The vibe at the shop is completely different from the way it was a week ago. Everyone is excited about Surf Sisters competing in the King of the Beach. I think the important part is that it gives us something positive to think about and takes our minds off the fact that the store is closing. Even the fact that we’re keeping it a secret gives the whole thing a spy vs. spy feel.

There is one massive problem, however, that nobody’s talking about. I know I’m certainly not going to bring it up. But . . . even though I’m the one who came up with the idea and I enjoy our secret sisterhood and backroom plotting, I don’t see how we can possibly win the contest.

The Surf City team isn’t just good. It’s amazing.

Consider this little nugget. Surf City sponsors ten of the twenty highest rated surfers in the state. A team can submit up to eight surfers in the competition. That means two of the best surfers in all of Florida won’t even make it on their team. Meanwhile, Mickey and Mo are the only people on our team who have even been in a tournament before. And, while I don’t doubt their greatness, the two of them are over fifty and haven’t competed in decades.

It is this sobering thought that’s going through my mind as I pull down the folding stairs and climb up onto the roof of the store. Every two hours I’m responsible for updating the surf report we put up on our Web site and on the sign that hangs outside our door. That means I get to go up on the roof with my binoculars, check the waves, and read the thermometer and wind gauge. It’s like I’m a TV weather girl, except without the hair spray and a perky nickname.

I’m looking through the binoculars when I hear a voice.

“How’s it looking?”

I turn around and see that Mo has followed me up.

“Not great. The waves are one to two feet, ankle to knee high. Small, clean lines crumbling through. The wind is five to ten knots north-northeast.”

“Oh, to live in Hawaii,” she says, bringing a smile to both of us. “But I guess the struggle makes us appreciate it that much more.”

She’s talking about the fact that Florida waves are nothing compared to their relatives in California and Hawaii. I love it here, but if you want to surf in the Sunshine State you have to work at it and learn how to make a lot out of a little.

“My dad and I have talked about going out there as a graduation present,” I say. “The plan is basically to live in a tent on the North Shore of Oahu and surf until we drop.”

“You gotta love dads who teach their girls to surf,” she says with an appreciative nod. “But don’t forget that these waves gave the world Kelly Slater.” Born and raised in Florida, Kelly Slater is considered by many to be the greatest surfer of all time. I’ve got his poster on my wall.

“What brings you roof-side?” I ask.

“The view,” she replies, “and you.”

“Why me?”

It dawns on me that we’re in virtually the exact same spot that we were standing on the night of the Fourth, when she had tears in her eyes and I got the ball rolling on this whole competition thing.

“The last few days I’ve been out on the pier watching you girls practice,” she says.

“Really? I haven’t seen you there.”

“We’re supposed to be keeping it on the down low, so I’ve been hiding out,” she says with a shrug. “But there’s one thing that can’t be hidden—your talent. I don’t think you have any idea how good you are.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she says.

“How good do you think I am?”

“Beyond slamming. Way better than I was at your age.”

I give her a skeptical smile. “Nice try.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to build me up for the contest,” I say.

She shakes her head. “No, I’m trying to make sure you appreciate your talent. That you understand that it exists.”

Praise like this coming from Mo means a lot. Other than my father, she’s taught me more about surfing than anyone.

“That’s hard to believe, but thanks,” I tell her. “You don’t know how much that means to me coming from you.”

“That’s the part I thought you’d like hearing,” she says, changing the tone of the conversation. “Now I’m going to tell you something that you won’t.”

I brace myself.

“In a few months Surf Sisters will no longer be here. But you will still only be sixteen years old. You have a future in this sport.”

“What’s the part that I don’t want to hear?”

She pauses for a moment before saying it. “Surf City doesn’t have a single ranked girl on their team. Once they see what you’ve got, they’d be fools not to jump at the chance to sponsor you . . . and you’d be a fool not to take it.”

I cannot believe what I’m hearing. This is like Santa Claus coming down your chimney and telling you that there’s no such thing as Christmas. Mo cannot be telling me to join up with Surf City.

“There’s no way I would ever do that. Not with them. The only reason I’m even competing in the first place is because I want to beat them.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” she says. “You shouldn’t be surfing because of them. And you shouldn’t be surfing because of us. You should be doing it for you. I’ve been watching you and I’ve noticed a complete evolution in your style. You’ve found a spark and you should see where it takes you. You know what I think about their store. But there’s no denying that their team is outstanding . . . just like you.”

“You’re right,” I say, more confused than anything. “I don’t want to hear this.”

I don’t wait for a response. I just walk past her and head back down the stairs.

It was completely out of left field,” I say as I tell Ben about my conversation with Mo. “In a weird way it felt like she was dumping me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ben says as he tries to scrape the wax off an old surfboard. “Mo loves you. The last thing she’d do is dump you.”

Despite my mood regarding Mo and our conversation, this brings us to the best part of my new daily routine. If I’m not training or working at the shop, then the odds are pretty good that I’m with Ben. We’ve done something together every night this week. We’ve gone bowling (I was pathetic), played putt putt (I beat him on the last hole and was surprisingly obnoxious about it), and just hung out and watched TV. (He’s already got me hooked on British mystery shows.)

We’ve also started basic surfing lessons. For the first few he borrowed Black Beauty, which is what my dad calls his favorite shortboard, and now Ben’s purchased one of his own. It’s an old quad fish that he dubbed Blue Boy in keeping with my dad’s naming tradition. It’s been a while since Blue Boy has been in the water, so I’m teaching him how to strip off the old wax and start anew. He’s got it lying across two sawhorses and is bent over, hard at work.

“How’s this?” he asks as he scrapes the last bit.

“Good,” I say, inspecting it. “Very good.”

I hand him a bar of Mr. Zog’s that I picked up at the shop.

“Now start to apply the base coat. Make straight lines from one rail to the other directly perpendicular to the stringer.” The rails are the side edges, and the stringer is a thin strip of wood that runs down the center of the board and makes it stronger.

“Like this?” he asks as he carefully rubs the bar of wax across the board.

“Exactly,” I say.

I like watching him work. He does this little thing where he bites the left side of his lower lip when he concentrates, and it’s beyond cute. It’s also a sure sign that he is trying to do it perfectly. It’s a total contrast to the goofy way he is around the kids during camp.

“You know Mo was just looking out for you,” he says. “She doesn’t want you in denial. She wants to make sure you can move on after the summer.”

When he says this I realize why the conversation with Mo is bothering me so much. It’s not just the fact that she thinks I would represent Surf City. It’s the fact that she is already encouraging me to find something new after the summer. She’s trying to make it all right for me to replace Surf Sisters. And the problem is, if she can persuade me, then so can Ben.

“Is that something you can relate to?” I ask pointedly.

He starts to answer but stops when he realizes that I’ve set a trap.

“They’re two very different things,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But, yes, I can relate to worrying about you in September.”

I put my hand on his hand to stop him for a moment, and he looks up at me.

“When the time comes for you to go back home, do not be like Mo. Don’t encourage me to meet another boy and replace you. I knew what I was getting into when I kissed you on the pier. I’m a big girl and I know that September will come. But we said this was going to be like the perfect wave. We’re going to ride it until the very end and not worry about the next one.”

He stands upright and carefully looks at me. I can tell he’s debating what he should say next. In my brain I know that he will go home and find someone new. And, theoretically, I know that I will also find someone. But, in my heart, I can’t bear the thought right now.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I promise I won’t.”

Then, completely out of nowhere, I start to cry. Not big sobs, but steady tears that slide down my cheeks one by one. The fact that I’m embarrassed about this emotional display only makes me cry that much more.

We’re on opposite sides of the surfboard, so he reaches across and holds my hand as he navigates his way around the sawhorse and wraps me in his arms. I cry a little harder as I bury my face in his chest, and he gently strokes my back. I start to apologize for being such a drama queen, but he just shushes me and holds me tighter.

“It’s okay, baby.”

Just hearing him say that fills me with this warmth. In a weird way I’ve never felt worse and better at the same time. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of his heart beating.

Okay, I’d like to officially apologize for whatever that was earlier,” I say as we walk along the beach a few hours later. There’s only a sliver of a moon hanging over the water, but stars fill the night sky and it’s stunning.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says. “You’re allowed to show emotion. That’s part of the package.”

“Well, it was both unexpected and unprecedented,” I explain. “Although I will say that there was a sort of emotional cleansing quality to the whole thing.”

“Is that your way of saying you feel better now?” he asks.

“Well, if you want the SparkNotes version, yes.”

“I am perfectly happy with the SparkNotes version,” he says. “But also more than willing to go into greater detail if that makes you happier.”

I stop and put my hands on my hips in mock protest. “Are you saying that it doesn’t matter or just that you don’t care?”

“Neither,” he answers as he skillfully snakes a hand through my arm and pulls me closer to him. “I’m saying that I’m here for you however you need me to be.”

I give him a playful nod and counter, “You’re a slick talker, Ben Taylor. You always seem to say just the right thing.”

“And is that a problem?”

“It kind of is.”

“Let me get this straight,” he replies, looking down at me. “Are you now criticizing me for not saying the wrong thing?”

“The female mind is quite the riddle,” I joke. “Besides, I’m not criticizing you. I’m just keeping you on your toes.”

“How about I keep you on your toes instead?”

He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me ever so slightly, so that now I’m on my tiptoes—the perfect kissing height. At first I think it’s going to be a peck, but our lips linger and I close my eyes. The instant it’s over, I pick up the conversation where I left off.

“See what I mean? You always say the right thing. That’s suspicious, don’t you think?”

I break free from his arms and sprint ahead of him.

“Where are you going?”

“I thought you were a runner,” I call back. “Yet I’m the one winning the race to the lifeguard stand!”

Up ahead of us is a lifeguard stand. It looks like a giant high chair that’s twelve feet tall and made out of bright orange two-by-fours. I’ve got a good head start, but he quickly closes the gap and we both get there at the same time.

“I won,” I say, catching my breath.

“Hardly,” he laughs. “It was a tie and you cheated more than a little bit.”

“That’s not what I meant. I won because I got you right where I want you,” I say as I climb up into the seat. It is big and roomy enough for a lifeguard to sit with all of his gear. Or, in other words, it’s the perfect size for two people to squeeze into.

“So this was your plan all along,” Ben says as he climbs up and slides in next to me.

“Bwahahaha,” I reply with an evil master villain’s laugh. “And you, Ben Taylor, were just my puppet.”

This high up, there’s a cool night breeze that makes it perfect for snuggling. I’ve known that couples do this and I have always imagined what it would be like. (Spoiler alert: It’s awesome!) Ben puts his arm around me and I slide up next to him, and we just snap together perfectly like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.

“Are we even allowed to be up here?” he asks.

“Of course we are,” I say. “It’s for lifeguards during the day, couples at night. It really fits right into the whole ‘reduce, reuse, recycle’ philosophy that we encourage here at the beach. Very multipurpose and good for the environment.”

I rest my head on his shoulder and look out at the sea. More than a minute passes without either one of us saying a word. We just listen to the slow and steady music of the waves washing up on the beach and then pulling back into the ocean. Everything at this moment is perfect. So of course that means I have to screw it up.

“Can I ask you something?”

“There’s an ominous beginning,” he says.

“Whose idea was it to break up?”

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “We’re not breaking up.”

“No. I mean between you and Beth. Whose idea was it to break up?”

He lets go of me and turns so that his back is against the side of the chair. I may not be fluent in body language, but I can tell he’s not thrilled with the question. “Why would you even ask that? Everything about this moment is perfect. Excuse me, was perfect.”

“I know.”

“So why would you ask that?”

“I told you. The female mind is complex.”

“It’s not a joke, Izzy.”

“And I’m not joking. I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but this is all new to me. I’ve never had a boyfriend. Nothing even close to one. That means you know every single thing about my past relationship history. So when we’re sitting like this and everything’s perfect, you know what’s going on in my mind.”

“Trust me when I say that I have no idea what’s going on in your mind.”

“Okay, that’s a fair point,” I answer. “But all I know about Beth is that she was beautiful and wonderful and everyone thought you two were a perfect couple.”

“And after I told you that, you ignored me for two weeks,” he says. “In fact, just a few blocks up from this very spot you told me that you couldn’t be the girl I talked to about other girls.”

“Things are different now,” I reply. “And to be honest, since the only things I know about Beth are how wonderful she is, a little part of me could stand to hear how it ended.”

I really don’t know what it is about me that takes perfect moments and twists them into psychodramas, but I can’t help it. I am who I am.

There’s just enough moonlight on his face for me to tell that he’s biting the left side of his lower lip. He’s in deep thought mode, so I stop talking. Finally, after what seems like forever, he responds.

“It was my idea. We were out by the lake. She was talking about the prom and how important it was and how it would be this signature moment in our relationship. I mean, I know it’s a big deal, but it is just a dance. She was obsessed with what table we were going to sit at, where we were going to go for photographs, and I just couldn’t get excited about it. Maybe it’s because I was in a pissy mood about my parents, but I just couldn’t. Then, somewhere in the middle of it all, I just knew it was over.”

He stops for a moment and takes a deep breath.

“Some of my friends said that I should’ve just hung on until it was time for me to come to Florida, but I couldn’t do that to her. She didn’t deserve to be strung along. So I told her that I was really sorry but I couldn’t go to the prom with her and that we couldn’t see each other anymore.”

“You dumped her right before the prom?” I say, almost feeling sorry for her.

He nods. “I know. I’m a terrible person.”

“You’re not a terrible person,” I say. “The timing was unfortunate, but if that’s how you felt, you did the right thing.”

“Just for the record, Beth did not agree with your take on it. She made sure everyone knew how much it was not the right thing. I can’t blame her, I guess. Somehow she did manage to bounce back and find a guy who was more than happy to sit at the right table and smile his way through God knows how many pictures. He’s a good guy, actually. I hope it works for them.”

There’s a pause. Which means of course that I have to keep pressing the issue.

“How did you know it was over?” I ask. “You said that in the middle of it all you just knew.”

He turns his head to the side and shakes it in disbelief. “You really want me to tell you this stuff?”

I nod. “I know. I can’t help it.”

“Somewhere in the middle of all the discussion it dawned on me that it really was more than a dance for her. She sounded like my sister did when she was planning her wedding. And that’s when I realized that Beth was actually in love with me. We weren’t just dating. It wasn’t just some high school thing. She loved me.”

“And you weren’t in love with her?”

“No,” he says. “I might have been in love with the idea of her. I might have loved the attention. But I didn’t love her, and it seemed incredibly unfair for me to let someone love me when I didn’t feel the same way in return.”

Now here’s a problem.

I have no doubt that I am completely in love with Ben. Not the idea of him. Not the concept of him. Him. I’ve even wondered if I should tell him. But now I think the smart thing to do is to keep that secret to myself. Instead, I lie to him for the first and hopefully only time.

“Lucky for us we don’t have to worry about that,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “We both know that this is just for the summer.”

He doesn’t really answer. Instead he just kind of nods, and I lay my head on his shoulder again. It takes a moment, but he puts his arm around me.

It’s quiet for a while and we just sit there. I can’t help but think I’m doing everything wrong in this relationship. I don’t know why I asked about Beth, but the truth is I really felt like I needed to know that stuff. I put my hand over to rest it on his chest, but he pulls back, and I worry that he’s about to tell me that I’m just not worth the headache. But instead, he says something completely unexpected.

“Is that a body?”

“What?”

“Over there,” he says, pointing down the beach about a hundred feet. “I just saw that dark shadow move. I think it might be a body.”

I look, and when I see it, I know instantly what it is.

“Ooh, ooh, ooh, it’s not a body,” I say, trying to contain my excitement. “Follow me.”

I quickly climb down the lifeguard stand, and he’s right behind me.

“I just saw it move again,” he says as he tries to keep up. “What is it?”

I stop and turn to him. “A turtle!”

I grab him by the hand and we race down the beach together until we get close. We slow down and stop when we’re about fifteen feet away from where a massive sea turtle is slowly dragging herself across the sand. She’s three feet long and weighs nearly two hundred pounds.

We keep our distance, and I put my finger over my lips and say, “Only whisper, and don’t cross her path.”

He nods and replies, “She’s huge.”

“She’s a loggerhead coming ashore to lay her eggs.”

A bank of clouds drifts by and reveals the moon, its light dancing across the turtle’s red and brown shell.

“She’s going to lay them over there,” I say, pointing toward the sand dunes. “Don’t disturb her and don’t let her see any lights, like your phone; it can confuse her.”

“Okay.”

We spend the next thirty minutes watching her. It’s a lumbering crawl up onto the edge of the dunes, and you can’t help but marvel at her determination. When she starts to scrape away an area with her front flippers, I tug on Ben’s hand and we quietly loop around to get a closer look. She uses her hind flippers to dig a nest and then fills it with dozens of ping-pong-ball-sized eggs.

“Oh my God!” Ben whispers, being careful not to disturb her. “It’s amazing.”

I nod in agreement.

Once she’s done laying eggs, she uses her flippers to cover the nest back up, and then she begins the laborious task of dragging herself back to the ocean. We keep watching, but we move far enough away so that we can talk at regular volume.

“She was born here in Pearl Beach,” I say.

Ben gives me a skeptical look. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because sea turtles always come back to the same beach where they were born. It’s in their DNA.”

He thinks about this for a moment and then says, “Like me.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.