Page 3 of Catch a Wave

It’s mid-February, not exactly the height of our busy season, but we attract a whole other set of tourists this time of year. People from truly cold climates come to Marbella, despite the foggier mornings and cooler temps of winter on the island. Theyconsider our highs of sixty degrees balmy since the weather where they’re coming from usually requires a snowblower and an ice scraper.

It’s been four weeks since Kalaine’s accident. She stayed in the hospital for a week.

I ran the watersports shack here at Alicante Resort and Spa while Kai took his first vacation since I’ve worked here to go sit by his sister’s side until she woke. And then he stayed on until she was released with a concussion, sprained ACL and broken ankle. According to what I overheard Kai telling Ben, Kalaine insisted on staying in California despite her parents begging her to come back to Oahu with them. From the little I know, she had been living somewhere in South America with a group of female surfers before the accident.

I know Mavs. She’s easy going—a total free spirit—but also driven. Anyone who rides big waves has to be. And when she makes up her mind about something, not even her dad will convince her otherwise. According to Kai, she’s staying with a friend up in Scotts Valley outside of Santa Cruz.

Couch surfing: It’s the worst kind of surfing. Been there, done that, got the water sports job to prove it.

I don’t ask about Mavs, but my ears perk up anytime someone else does.

Kai and I have been like ships in the night since he’s been back. He’s hiding himself away and avoiding his emotions by throwing himself into work. He’s always done some handyman jobs around the island to make a little extra cash here and there. But since Kalaine’s accident, he’s been working the watersports shack most days and then leaving work to go fix or build something for someone nearly every night. He’s burning the candle at both ends.

I get it. What we witnessed took a toll on each of us in its own way.

I’m giving him space—for now.

We all process traumatic experiences in our own ways. I’m pretty sure he’ll burn off his grief within a few more weeks and things will go back to some semblance of normal.

“We’ve got to talk,” Kai says, looking up from the wetsuit he’s holding.

His finger pokes through a hole in the neoprene near the neck.

“I’ve gotta try and patch this,” he says, as if he didn’t just say we need to talk.

Another customer walks in, asking about surf lessons. I field all his questions since I’m usually the one doing surf instruction these days. Ben gives some lessons too, but we leave him to run the tours during the winter months.

Between the steady stream of customers, and Ben coming in to work the afternoon shift, Kai and I don’t get any time alone all day. His words—we need to talk—hang like an ominous cloud between us. By the time we close, I’m racing home ahead of Kai. I had planned to have a group of friends over for burgers and hanging out. Kai and I are sort-of known for our regular barbecues. A bunch of resort employees will come over and fill our space until everyone gets too tired and starts to peel away to their own places for the night.

Kai disappears after work and doesn’t come home until after everyone’s left. I’m already in bed when I hear the door open and shut behind him.

I shoot him a text.

Bodhi: What did you need to talk to me about?

Kai: It’s late. We can talk tomorrow. I don’t want to talk by text.

Bodhi: I can come out of my room if you want.

Kai: It can wait.

Bodhi: K. Night, bro.

Kai: Night.

I don’t fall asleep right away. It’s been this way for four weeks now. Whenever I shut my eyes, I see Mavs being thrown off that wave. I try to shake that image, only to have it replaced with the sight of all the jet skis swarming to find her when she was held under by the whitewash, or the sight of her limp body being placed on the stretcher.

I’ve started to text her hundreds of times, just to tell her I’m thinking of her, or to say I’m glad she survived. But I’m the last person she needs to hear from right now, so I delete every message before I send it. I know what it’s like to come out of a wave like that. Everything you believed and thought gets questioned—by you and everyone around you. She doesn’t need her ex-boyfriend stepping into the mix and complicating things right now.

I wake later than usual the next morning. Saturday’s my day off this season. I didn’t set an alarm since I knew I didn’t have to be anywhere. I’m working on shaping a board in the garage, so I have the door wide open, even though the view is only of the alley that runs behind our house. I’ve got my Airpods in, an old Sublime album setting the tone for my work. I hear a banging noise, so I turn off my power planer and pause my music.

The banging starts up again. Someone’s knocking at our front door.

I walk through from the garage into the house, brushing dust off my hands onto my board shorts as I go. I’m a mess. Shaping boards leaves me coated in grime and dust, but it’s work that gives me a purpose and something to focus on besides Mavs.

I open the door and blink.

Mavs is standing on our porch, a crutch under one arm, her ukulele case in her other hand and a paisley duffle bag sittingat her feet. Her long, wavy, dark brown hair is pulled up into a ponytail. She’s got several strands of wooden beaded necklaces around her neck, and she’s wearing a long flowing cotton skirt and a loose blouse that makes her look like the Hawaiian reincarnation of Janis Joplin.

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