Page 87 of Tides That Bind

I try to focus on the speed and shape the wave takes so I can prompt her as I did before, because if you can’t nail a pop up, you’ll never surf.

But I can’t really focus on the wave below Harper. I just focus on her.

And she needs no prompting. After the smallest bout of hesitation, she rolls her body so smoothly and naturally, like she’s doing yoga on top of a wave. It’s then I realize her back foot is flexed, not flat.

“Get that foot down!” I yell.

“Riley!” she screams. “Riley I’m doing it!”

She is, but also, she’s not listening. Because with that backfoot arched, she loses her balance, and then topples over. Barely under the water for three seconds, Harper lifts her head, and, much to my delight, brushes her blonde hair from her face. “Okay. I almost did it.”

There’s a lightness to Harper’s joyful tone even as she struggles to regain control of the board. She stumbles again, but rights herself before turning the board back out toward the surf and away from the beach, trudging forward into the deeper water.

I paddle over to help her again.

“No,” she splashes me. “I’ve got it.”

And got it, Harper does. But after she hops on her board and turns it to face the shore, she peeks over her shoulder. When she finds me, she smiles and I’m reminded by something Nate wrote in his letter.

She’ll just need to know someone’s there.

I didn’t know back then just how happy I would be now to be that someone.

I won’t admitto Riley that I already feel soreness creeping up my legs. I’m afraid I’ll seem too amateur—which I am—or too off brand for a yoga instructor. But surfing is more of a full body workout than I expected.

Out of breath, I drag the board to the sand and lay down on it, stretching my arms above my head and pointing my toes, which are chilly under the sand caking my feet. It’s a stark contrast from the heat my wetsuit traps in my upper body, but its coziness rivals the sun drying the water from bare legs, leaving tiny clusters of salt on my skin.

So in tune with my body at the moment, I seem to feel every part of it so clearly, like a layer has been shed, like I’m something and someone new.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Riley plops down beside me.

“Is there a surfer’s’ high I was unaware of?”

Riley laughs. “And it’s only your first hit.”

Pressing up to my elbows, I wiggle my toes to free them from sand. I lift a hand, shading my eyes from the sun.

“When do I get to dothat?”

Riley looks out at the water where I now point at the surferwho has disappeared into the fold of a wave. He cocks his head back to me.

“You want tobarrel?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Barrel.”

Riley nods.

“What?”

“It’s”—he pauses, chewing on his lip—”a little advanced.”

“I got up on my first try,” I scoff, as if I’m insulted. But I know the only reason I stood was because I was riding the bunny slope of waves.

Riley is quick to remind me, “You fell on your first try.”

“Whatever. I think I can say I surf now.”

A chuckle flows from his mouth. “Yeah. You can say that. That’s probably because you’ve got balance. But I think you need a little more practice—”

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