The sweet, sad-eyed boy of eight had become a truly handsome young man. His light brown hair was long for the son of a naval officer, curling nearly to his chin, and bleached to a dark gold by the Californian sun. He was slim, muscled like an athlete, with broad shoulders and narrow hips.
A bright blue surfboard was tucked under one arm and he wore deep red swim shorts that were heavy with seawater, pulled down to show a sliver of paler skin at his waist, highlighting the tan on the rest of his body. The thought passed through my mind, he must have his pick of girls at school.
“Look at you, Sebastian. So grown up. It’s good to see you. How are you? How are your parents?”
His smile faltered.
“Oh, they’re fine.”
I didn’t know what to say; it was so strange to see him again after all these years. With a stretch of the imagination, I could just see the child I had known in the young man before me.
“Well… that’s great. I’m sure I’ll see you around the Base. Er… do you guys need a ride back?”
I looked uncertainly towards his friends, unsure how I’d manage to load three full sized surfboards on top of my old Ford.
“No, we’re good thanks. Ches has got a van.” He nodded towards one of the boys. “And we’re going to catch some more waves. When I saw you, I just wanted to… come say hi.”
“Okay, well, good seeing you, Sebastian.”
He smiled again, hovering tentatively. “I’ll see you again, Mrs. Wilson?”
His voice held a question.
“Yes, I expect so. Ciao, Sebastian.”
He beamed. “Ciao, Mrs. Wilson.”
I watched him walk away, drops of seawater dewing on his muscled back. Good Heavens! Little Sebastian Hunter – and not so little. How old was he? Seventeen? Eighteen? Certainly not twenty. I frowned, trying to do the math. He’d really grown into a fine young man. Amazing, considering his wretched parents.
Oh, God, I’d probably have to see the rancid Estelle and the monstrous father, Donald. The gloomy thought killed my good mood, and I scowled at the writhing, hissing ocean.
Sebastian and his friends strolled towards another group of surfers hovering on the shoreline. I could see they were laughing at him about something; I guessed it was to do with me. I shook my head: teenage boys, they don’t change.
I watched as they paddled out, a small flock of brightly plumed beach rats, disappearing abruptly behind the rising surf. I could just pick out a bright blue board weaving along the leading edge of a breaking wave. I gasped as the rushing water suddenly swallowed the boy, then relaxed when I saw his head break the surface, and he swam back to his board, paddling again towards the line-up.
For perhaps half an hour I continued to watch as they took turns racing across the hills of green water before being engulfed by the roiling froth, then paddling back to chase the next wave, over and over. It was pointless and beautiful and utterly mesmerizing.
Reluctantly I checked my watch; time to head back to the Base. I was expecting a delivery of some more of our belongings. I couldn’t be late; it wasn’t worth the ensuing argument if all was not ship-shape before David returned from the hospital.
I slipped a yellow sundress over my bikini and headed back to the car. It was super-heated of course, the air inside parched. I rolled down all the windows and drove back, singing along to Figaro’s aria on my temperamental CD player.
When I pulled up, the delivery guy was pounding on my door, frustrated by the lack of response.
“Sorry! Sorry! I’m here now.”
He glowered at me. I smiled pleasantly and offered him a cold beer.
“Well, ma’am, I wouldn’t say no to a cold soda if you’ve got one.”
He stood and poured it down his throat in one swallow, wiping sweat from his glowing face. Then he happily deposited two large crates in the garage and drove away.
I stared sourly at the boxes, wondering if my withering gaze would force them to unpack themselves. But no.