Taking my iced hazelnut latte, I find a spot at a picnic table overlooking the water. I sit and read for almost two hours, losing myself in the pages of my book, slipping off into a fantasy world that looks nothing like mine. And thank Thor for that.
On my second morning, I treat myself to another iced hazelnut latte, but this time, I take it along with a chair and a towel down to the beach. I find an isolated spot in the sand and sip my coffee while I watch the surfers. San Clemente is a popular surfing spot and my eyes wander fromperson to person, observing as they paddle out and catch a wave and fall down and paddle out and try again. Sometimes one of them will ride a wave all the way in, back to the sticky wet sand, shaking water droplets from their salty skin as they walk back up the beach. But just as many of them stay out in the ocean for hours, completing the cycle over and over again: paddle out, catch a wave, fall down, try again.
Eventually my eyes tire, and I doze for who knows how long because it doesn’t really matter.
I wake up when a group of surfers strolls by me on their way to the parking lot. The beach is much more crowded now, with most of the empty spaces filled in with umbrellas and beach chairs and brightly colored towels. More swimmers are now in the ocean than surfers.
One of the surfers jogs out of the water and over to a towel to the left of mine. I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses because he’s beautiful, and I can’t help but watch as he unzips his wetsuit, pulling the sleeves down and revealing tanned, ripped abs underneath. His hair is on the long side, golden blond and damp from the ocean.
He packs up his stuff and heads out, board tucked under his arm and a sparkling white smile wide on his face. He pauses near my chair. “Hi.”
“Hi.” I have to tilt my head up and shield my eyes in order to meet his, which are a striking green.
“You a local?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m from LA. Just here for the week.”
He plants his board in the sand, tail end down, leaningon it like he’s posing for a calendar shoot. “Here all by yourself?”
I imagine he’s probably asking so he can discern whether I’m single or taken, but the question hits a little differently for me now. “Yup. All by myself.”
He grins, which somehow causes his abs to flex. “Maybe we could go grab a drink.”
A vision of the future plays out in my mind like those little slides in a toy View-Master. Me and Surfer Guy falling in love over cocktails. Me and Surfer Guy walking hand in hand on the beach. Me learning everything there is to know about surfing. Me begging Natasha to let me work remotely so I can spend all my time at Surfer Guy’s apartment, which in my mind is full of empty beer cans and carpeted with sand.
I give him what I hope is a warm smile. “I’d love to, but I’m not really dating right now. I’m spending some time focusing on myself.”
I wait for him to needle me, try to convince me I’m making a huge mistake.
But he doesn’t. “I get that. Self-care is essential.” He hoists his board up, tucking it back under his arm, the ever-present smile never fading. “Take care of yourself.”
“Yeah, you too.”
And with a half wave and another killer grin, he’s on his way.
On my third day, I head back to the beach, my eyes buried in a book instead of glued to the surfers in the ocean. That night, I shower and put on one of the cotton dresses Ibrought with me and drive to the small downtown strip, cluttered with restaurants and bars and small shops. I pick a Mexican place and head to the hostess stand.
“Table for two?”
“Just one, actually.” I adjust the strap of my cross-body purse so I have something to do with my hands.
The hostess gives me a smile that has a good dose of pity in it, but I try not to focus on that. I take my seat and peruse the menu and order a margarita and chicken fajitas. I force myself to resist pulling out my phone, staying content with reading a book while I wait for my food to be delivered.
As I eat, I people-watch and eavesdrop and focus on enjoying the flavors of my meal. After I pay and head out, I walk around for a bit, exploring the shops that are still open. I find a used bookstore and make a mental note to come back tomorrow. I treat myself to more ice cream before I drive back to my rental condo. It’s not that late, but being in the sun all day has made me tired, so I change and wash my face and climb into bed. Sleep comes easily at the beach.
On day four, I finally take my laptop out of its case, plug it in, and turn it on. Even though I’m technically on vacation, I still have a deadline to meet. My next column is due in three days, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to write about my one-night encounter with Seth and make it suitable for the intended audience.
I also have no idea how to write about what happened with Seth without bringing our history and all our baggage into it. Something tells me I can’t get away with simply saying that I had mind-blowing sex with my ex-boyfriend andnow I’m miraculously cured of all my serial-monogamist tendencies. Natasha wants details, which I’m not willing to give. But I also can’t go with my original plan of focusing on the lesson learned, because, frankly, I still don’t know what I learned from that night. Other than that we still have the kind of sex that curls my toes, and that we still have the power to hurt each other in a way that scares me a little bit. A lot of bit.
I stare at my computer screen for an hour, the cursor blinking at me, the page as blank as my mind. Deciding I need a mental break, I head out to pick up a coffee and a snack, but even after sucking down twenty ounces of caffeine, I still can’t manage to make the words come.
Bribery is usually a good motivator, so I promise myself a trip to the used bookstore if I make some progress, write just one measly sentence. But even the thought of new-to-me books doesn’t budge my fingers.
I pull out my phone and text Dr. Lawson, letting her know I’m out of town but could use a little help. She texts back an hour later and we set up a video chat for the next day.
As a last resort, I close my laptop and take out a notebook and a pen. If I can’t write words fit for public consumption, then maybe I can write some words just for me. Maybe that will help me clarify what it is I need and want to say in this next article.
I start by writing down some of the things I’ve learned about myself so far as I’ve completed the tasks set before me.
