Page 30 of Summer Love

When I come back up the beach, the sun’s already hitting harder and Flip’s waiting for me at the water’s edge, tail wagging, muzzle full of sand. He circles me while I unstrap my leash, shoves his wet nose into my hand, barks at nothing.

“Easy, big guy.”

He doesn’t settle. He never settles.

At nine, the groups show up. Maya takes her little ones—the five- and six-year-olds, shrimp in swimsuits with their moms cheering from the beach. She sets them up at the water’s edge on foam boards, feet in the whitewash. In under a minute, they’re all laughing.

A little farther down, Kai takes the teenagers, more serious, already competing over who’ll stand up first. I get the seven- to nine-year-olds—six kids who can’t hold still. I line them up in front of the racks and hand out the wetsuits—too big, like always. One little redhead disappears into his. Another puts his arms through the legs. The parents settle in on the beach with cups of coffee and towels.

Eighteen wired kids on Crescent Beach at nine in the morning—not exactly the quiet residential setting buyers are looking for.

“Okay, everybody in a line. Feet in the sand. No—feet, not knees. There you go.”

They all stare at me. Some act tough, others look nervous. The redhead won’t stop jumping in place.

“Who can swim?”

Everybody raises a hand. The redhead raises both.

“Okay. Who’s scared of the water? Nobody? Liars.”

Three nervous laughs and an “Am not!” from the redhead. The other two glance at each other, biting their lips.

“Good. Before we get in the water, we’re going to do a quick test. One at a time.”

I start with the redhead. I move behind him.

“I’m going to give you a push from behind. Not hard. You won’t fall. You’ll just step forward. Okay?”

He nods. I push. His left foot steps forward.

“Regular. You put your left foot forward on the board. Easy.”

I move to the next one, a dark-haired girl with pigtails. I push, her right foot steps forward.

“Goofy. Right foot forward.”

Like Summer.

And I’m thrown back eighteen years—on this same beach, my dad, Noah, and me. I was six, Noah four, my dad still alive. A little blonde girl had come out of the yard next door. I’d handed her a foam board, my dad had given her the test. Goofy. I’d told her, “You’re not normal, you know that?” She’d laughed.

I shake my head and move on to the next kid.

“Who’s the lady next door?”

The redhead points over the fence, toward the Hayes yard.

I look up. Summer’s on her knees in the yard, work gloves on. She’s tearing out weeds clump by clump, methodical, stubborn. Her hair’s tied up in a high ponytail and she’s got dirt on her arms.

My jaw tightens.

“We don’t worry about the neighbors. We focus on our boards. Which foot did I say?”

“Left!”

“Good. Show me.”

The lesson picks back up. The kids lie down on the boards spread out on the sand and practice the pop-up, the move to get to their feet. I correct positions, hands, feet. I do it on autopilot.