Page 28 of The Moment of Letting Go

I think on his question a moment, digging inside myself for his reasoning behind it, because I get the distinct feeling there is one.

“I guess that’s the most important thing,” I say. “I mean, I love the creative side of my job, but the money is why we work to begin with.”

Luke smiles softly and gazes across the water. He says, “A wise man once said, Why work for a living if you kill yourself working?”

I purse my lips thoughtfully and nod. “Pretty sound advice, I guess. Who’s the wise man?”

“Clint Eastwood,” Luke answers.

I chuckle. “He said that, did he?”

“Yep. He did—well, it went something like that, anyway.”

“Good advice,” I repeat, “but not exactly advice half of the working population can heed, unfortunately.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “I think it can be done.”

A wave pushes us forward, almost knocking me off my board, but I manage to hold on and stay upright. We’ve been drifting closer to the shore for the past few minutes.

Once the water calms again, I look back over at him and say, “I’m all ears.”

Another wave comes toward us, and this time Luke gives me that look, telling me I should try to catch this one. With only a little time to spare, I lie forward across the center of my board and start to paddle until the wave comes quickly up from behind. I brace myself, popping my body into a near-perfect stance. The wave carries me nearly all the way to the shore, where I finally jump off one side into shallow water. Luke is right behind me.

An enormous smile stretches my face so wide that the muscles in my cheeks hurt. I never imagined that something as simple as riding waves on a piece of fiberglass, or foam, or whatever these boards are made of, could be so exciting. I probably thought about being stung by a jellyfish only once the entire time I was out there. It was like the waves and the sun beating down on my head and Luke’s encouraging smiles and gestures blocked out everything else. My eyes are burning from the salt, but I don’t care; my legs and arms are a little sore from all the paddling and such, but I welcome it—I feel exhilarated!

“That was awesome!” Luke says as he takes his board up and positions it underneath his arm. “A few more private lessons and you’ll be surfing with the locals.” He winks.

I know he’s just joking around about that part, but I admit, I did pretty good just now and I’m quite proud of myself.

“Too bad I can’t stay.” The ball of excitement burning behind my ribs suddenly begins to lose its warmth and become something cold.

We leave the water and walk toward our stuff lying on the dry sand farther away. He sets his board down and bends over, taking off the leash around his ankle, and I check him out quietly from the side: tall, tanned rock-hard body, muscles thick in his arms and his calves. I look down at my ankle quickly and take off my leash, too, when he raises his eyes to me.

I shake out my beach towel and reposition it on the sand, sitting down on top of it.

“People work for money,” Luke begins, “and it seems logical that it be the most important thing about having a job, but focusing on the money is usually what makes the job suck, I think.”

Luke sits down next to me on the towel. He draws his knees up, propping his forearms on top of them, letting his hands dangle freely. I cross my legs and sit Indian-style, resting my hands within my lap.

“But it’s kind of hard not to focus on the money,” I say, glancing over, “when that’s the only reason you’re working to begin with.”

“True.” He nods. “But maybe you should like your job first and think of the money it gives you as an added benefit—makes having a job less like an obligation.”

“Easier said than done!” I scoff and then cover it up with a laugh. “I don’t see how anyone can like flipping burgers or dealing with rude customers on a daily basis or mopping up puke at a bar—so much easier said than done.”

Just when I think he’s got some real flaws after all, he says, “Oh, trust me, I know. You’re absolutely right.”

“I’m confused,” I say out loud when really I hadn’t meant to.

Luke reaches down and picks up a handful of sand and lets it fall slowly through his fingers. Once the last of it falls into a tiny mound between his feet, he smiles over at me.

“It’s hard to explain,” he says. “And we don’t have much time left together. I think I’d rather use what’s left of it to know more about you. What do you enjoy? And I’m not talking about what your favorite television shows are, but what do you really love to do?”

Although I do want to know his philosophy on work and listen to him explain himself out of that one, I don’t press the issue. Instead his question about what I love doing excites me.

“Photography,” I tell him right away. “I love finding the best angles, the most emotional shots, capturing moments with my lens that tell a thousand stories.” I pause, lost in the imagery. “I got my first camera as a birthday present when I turned ten. Been doing it ever since.”

“Then why aren’t you doing that instead of”—he waves his fingers dismissively—“whatever that is you do that almost makes you cry?”

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