I towel off and put on a clean bathing suit, a sundress over top. The coffee waits beneath the brewer. I take a sip and find it passable for instant brew. The worrier in me is troubled by how absolutely perfect the first half hour of my day has gone. I expect trouble ahead to balance it all out.
Watching the sunrise from the deck, I cup my mug in both hands and enjoy its warmth. Several gulls cry and chase along the beach, and I try to remember the last time I saw more than one or two sea birds together in the wild. I spot at least four here, a sign of some feeble life in this corner of the sea. I remember being a kid and seeing dozens of birds at a time: high-flying Vs of seagulls and low-gliding pelicans whose wingtips seemed to graze the water. I remember tossing french fries from the aft deck of a ferry once, and not a single fry reaching the ship’s wake; they were gobbled up mid-air by a hovering flock of birds. Years later, on the same ferry, you could toss bread over the rail and nothing would come to claim it. The bread would disappear in the water. Michael told me to stop wasting it.
One of the crying gulls over Ness’s beach tucks in its wings and plummets into the sea, sending up a small geyser. I’m too far away to see whether or not there’s a fish in its beak as it reemerges, but the two birds that immediately give chase let me know breakfast is on. I feel like a child again, witnessing a glimpse of the secret goings-on of Mother Nature. And just as quickly, I’m saddened that such a banal scene has become a rarity to treasure.
There’s a tremble in the wood rail. I turn toward the house to see Ness descending my way. Probably been watching for any sign that I was up. He has two large duffel bags, one on each shoulder, the straps crisscrossed over his chest. They look heavy, just judging by the way they’re pinned to his hips and not swaying. But Ness moves down the steps like they weigh nothing at all.
“Good morning,” he says.
I lift my mug in salute. Ness drops the bags, lifting the straps over his head, and they thud and clank to the deck. “You brought your fins and mask?”
I nod. “Are we going snorkeling today?”
“I had planned to. But something may come up this week that I’ll have to attend to. Just in case, I thought we’d skip ahead to diving.”
“I don’t dive,” I tell him. “Never have.”
“Well, today you start. Have you had breakfast?”
I shake my head.
“Eggs? I’ll make some eggs and toast. You take cheese in your eggs?”
“Sure,” I say.
Ness lets himself inside. I stay on the porch and enjoy the feel of the first rays of sunlight slicing through the morning chill. The air feels dry, the day promising to be warm. I glance down at the duffel bags, butterflies in my stomach. Michael tried to get me certified during our honeymoon in the Caymans. I was too scared to go through with it, chickened out on the side of the pool, said I wanted to spend our honeymoon not feeling any pressure. What I felt the rest of the week was the burn of his disappointment.
Funny how that disappointment made me never want to get certified, even after Michael left, and even though most of my friends dive. So much baggage. Heavier than those duffels with their tanks and all that gear. I watch Ness busy himself in the kitchen, whisking eggs, and consider the decision I need to make. Refuse to get in the water once again? Or, for the sake of the story, soldier through?
For the story, I tell myself. Because I’m a professional. Not because I want to. Not because of any pressure or fear of disappointment. I can’t let this be about that. I can’t be thirty-two, making more of this day—any unimportant day—than I made of my honeymoon nine years ago. But I can’t make the same mistakes, either. I can’t let every opportunity pass me by.
18
After a quick breakfast on the deck, we carry the duffels down to the manmade breakwater and the enclosed bay with the docks and boathouse. I insist on carrying one of the bags. It must weigh fifty pounds once I add my fins, mask, and wetsuit. I let Ness walk ahead of me and thank my Pilates instructor that I’m able to haul the bag without complaint. In fact, I feel strong. Maybe it’s the coffee or the good night of sleep, or the day on the beach, but I feel a power in my limbs. I feel courage and conviction. I’m going to learn to breathe underwater.
Ness leads me across the beach and to the boathouse. At the end of the dock, a metal ramp leads down to a floating platform. The ramp is hinged on both sides so it can move with the tides. There are cleats here for smaller boats to dock up. We set the bags down, and Ness flips a smaller ramp into the water. It’s a beach entry for launching kayaks and the like. I imagine we’ll be walking down this ramp and into the bay.
“A few safety rules,” Ness says. He starts unpacking his bag, and I follow along and do the same with the gear in my bag. “You don’t dive deeper than sixty feet, and you don’t stay that deep for more than ten minutes.”
“How will I know?”