I was touched by her thoughtfulness.
“Thank you, Mrs Peters. I’ll wear an old beach dress then. Thank you so much.”
After that, I felt full of energy, delighted with how the day was panning out. I drove over to the library, and got online to check up on the local surf spots, and also to find out a bit more about what kind of stories City Beat ran.
I just had time to stop by the Kwik Shop to stock up on groceries for supper and, as an afterthought, picked up a dozen focaccia rolls before running home to change into my old, yellow sundress and pick up my notebook.
I filled the rolls with pastrami, lettuce and tomatoes, and was finishing wrapping them up in kitchen paper and loading them into a cardboard box when I heard a horn honk outside. I grabbed my camera and notebook, swiped a bottle of pressé from the refrigerator and scooted out to meet my surf svengalis.
Sebastian had already leapt out of the van, smiling hugely.
“Hi, Caroline!”
He looked so thrilled to see me; I didn’t have the heart to be cool.
“Hello, Sebastian. Could you help me with this: I brought some sandwiches for you and your friends.”
“Wow, thanks!”
He tucked the box under one arm and opened the passenger door. “This is Mitch, um, Staff Sergeant Peters.”
Mitch Peters was a thick-set man of medium height with the trademark Marine buzz-cut. “Mrs. Wilson, pleased to meet you.”
“Oh, call me Caroline, please. You’re doing me the favor. I really appreciate you letting me gatecrash your surf safari.”
He smiled and his face immediately relaxed. “No problem, Caroline. It’ll make these beach bums mind their manners. Right, boys!”
Then he introduced me to his son Ches, Sebastian’s friend, whom I recognized from a few days back; Bill, Mitch’s buddy, and another boy they called Fido, for some reason.
I sat in the front, sandwiched between Mitch and Bill, and the boys crowded into the back of the van amongst a motley collection of surfboards, body boards, wetsuits, and strange, shiny Tshirts that I was told were rash vests.
“To stop the wetsuits rubbing around the neck and under the arms when you’re paddling out,” explained Mitch. “We won’t need them today: the water at this time of year is around 63F.”
I made a note of that and snapped a quick photo of the back of the van with all the boys pulling faces and flipping the bird.
“Caroline brought food,” announced Sebastian happily.
They must have all been starving because the rolls evaporated like water in the desert, and the pressé was passed around between them. I was sure I could have brought twice as much food, and it would have disappeared the same way.
We drove across the spectacular Coronado Bridge, then headed south, stopping occasionally for a surf check.
Mitch explained that they were looking for a steady swell and offshore breeze to hold up the waves; the best conditions for producing long, workable rides.
In the end, Mitch pulled up at the side of the road near Cays Park and the boys spilled out of the back, their reckless enthusiasm catching. Mitch and Bill were somewhat more circumspect, but I couldn’t tell whether that was because of their seniority, or because I was inhibiting them from the whole male-bonding ritual.
“Just forget I’m here,” I added, somewhat helplessly. “I’ll just watch and soak up the vibe.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bill, smiling at me, as he tugged off his T-shirt to reveal a barrel chest, thickly coated with reddish-brown hair.