Page 82 of Britta & the Beach Boy
“Scoot up a bit more,” I tell her, steadying her board. When she doesn’t move, I shift from the front of her board to the side where I can hold the board’s rails, one arm stretched across her back to the opposite rail from me.
“You don’t want to be too high up toward the nose,” I continue, ignoring the way my arm brushes her neoprene-covered butt with each gentle roll of the wave. “You gotta find the sweet spot where you feel steady. Don’t fight the wave. Roll with it.”
After a couple minutes, her breathing levels out, and I feel her sink into the board a bit, trusting it, herself, and the ocean. “I think I’ve got it.”
“Feels alright, yeah?” I loosen my grip on the other side and slide my hand to her lower back. “Next is lifting your chest. Ever done yoga?”
Britta nods.
“Hands on your board, next to your heart, then peel your chest up, like in an upward dog or cobra.”
She nods, and in one fluid motion, moves her hands and lifts her chest, following her breath like she’s on a yoga mat, not bobbing in the ocean, and it’s so beautiful—she’sso beautiful—that I want to applaud.
“Good on ya’, Britt. Beaut move.”
She glances over her shoulder at me, her wet hair falling across her opposite shoulder. “Really?”
I nod, feeling like I’ve had the wind knocked from me, but in the best way.
Suddenly a rogue wave, no more than a foot, rolls under us, and I lose my hold on her board. Britta panics and slips off into the water. She goes under before she can find her feet, and the retreating wave pulls her into deeper water.
The board strapped to her leg doesn’t help because she can’t get her legs under her. I dive under the board and swim around her kicking legs to pop up behind her.
“Hold still so I can undo the leash,” I say quickly before going back under to unstrap her from the board.
Without the board, her toes scrape the sand, and I hold her hand, helping her forward until we’re both in waist-level water again. Whitewash carries the board to the beach, but I keep hold of Britta, until she’s steady again. I move in front of her, so I can see incoming waves and she can see the beach isn’t far away.
“You alright?” With one hand on her hip, I use my other to push back the hair from her face, fighting every urge to kiss her.
Her head moves up and down in quick jerks and she grips my biceps so tight her nails dig into my skin. “Just scared me.”
Another wave threatens to pick her up, and she gasps.
“I’ve got you. Just hold on to me.” I circle my hands around her waist and lace my fingers together. “Slide your hands around my neck.”
Her eyes go wide with fear.
“Trust me. We’re going to work on getting comfortable with the movement of the ocean—it’s always moving, not like a lake.”
Britta’s breath slows, and one at a time, she slides her hands from my arms, over my shoulders, to the back of my neck. We lock eyes. I smile and take a deep breath. Her fingers go soft, and I pull her tighter to me.
“Close your eyes,” I whisper, brushing my nose across her cheek.
She takes a slow, deep breath, then lowers her lids. I slide my hand higher on her back, between her shoulder blades, and drag my thumb along the side of the zipper that would be so easy to undo.
“Dance with me, Britta.” My voice scrapes with the memory of her glowing in her green dress on our wedding day, my hand on her bare skin.
“I haven’t learned these steps.” Her words skip with a nervous excitement that sends my pulse racing.
“I’ll teach you. Put your feet on mine.”
She steps onto the tops of my feet, and with the next gentle wave, I push up from the bottom so we roll with it. On its return, I let it carry us backwards. Then I do the same thing again and again.
“Feel how the salt makes you more buoyant?”
Britta dips her head up and down. “The water feels heavier, somehow. Denser.”
“Just flow with it, and you’ll float.”
