2. Stevens

TWO

Stevens

There is nothing wrong with the love of beauty.

But beauty—unless she is wed to something

more meaningful—is always superficial.

~ Donna Tartt

“ W hat is that?” Ben’s face scrunches up and he points to the freshly-shaven skin over his own upper lip while staring above my mouth.

I look around the watersports shack as if I’m searching for whatever Ben’s talking about when I know full well what it is.

“What is what?” I ask him.

“The piece of furry seaweed over your lip. It looks like a caterpillar gave birth on your face over the last week.”

Kai and I laugh.

“Technically caterpillars don’t give birth. The butterfly or moth is in full adult stage with wings when it lays and fertilizes eggs.”

I can’t help myself. I’m a scientist. I’m obliged to correct misrepresentations of nature .

Ben walks closer to me and pretends to study the incoming hair over my lip. It’s been four days since I’ve shaved anything but my beard. Four days I spent assessing the waters north of Santa Barbara for a company that wants to expand development in that area. They are required to have clearance ensuring their expansion won’t harm any marine life.

“Is it ugly?” I ask, referencing my burgeoning facial hair.

“It’s not exactly ugly.” Ben runs a thoughtful hand along his jawline.

“Pretty sure you can’t achieve ugly,” Kai chimes in. “Did you want to? Because if you were going for ugly, this …” He gestures to his own upper lip and stares at mine. “… is a move in the right direction, for sure.”

“Yeah. I’m just trying to fend off some of the more exuberant advances.”

“Poor thing,” Ben teases. “Can’t keep the women at bay.”

Kai adds. “This could backfire. You might end up with a woman who’s got a thing for the ’stache. I can’t pull one off so I never could try the change you’re going for.”

“He can’t pull one off either,” Ben says, pointing at me and confirming my hopes. “You look creepy. Untrustworthy. I wouldn’t let you dog sit, let alone care for my child with the look you’re sporting.”

“All from facial hair?”

“It’s a look. One I don’t think you should entertain.” Ben nods and glances at Kai for confirmation. “It’s very, you should see my collection of doll heads . Or … I mastered every level in Zelda on my couch—alone .”

I smile. “Great.”

Ben looks confused.

As odd as it sounds, I am actually trying to tone down my attractiveness. I’m hoping the facial hair serves as a deterrent to the onslaught of flirty passengers I’ve had lately. I sound arrogant, even without saying it out loud. But I’m tired of women coming on to me based on my looks alone .

The mustache is an experiment. And, like any experiment, it may need modification over time. Handlebars? Ham hock sideburns? I could try a Dali where the ends are twisted and pointed skyward like symmetrically poised hairy chopsticks. That style wouldn’t hold up underwater on my regular dives, though. We’ll see. For now, Ben and Kai’s responses are data in the column I was hoping for. But the real test will be the single females who accompany me on marine cruises today.

I pass by the mirror outside the dressing room. My eyes do a double take. Yeah. This mustache is horrific. It looks like a yeti lobster loaned me his claw to perch over my lip, only I dyed it black.

“Maybe add a beard,” Ben suggests.

“Nah. I’m good. I think adding a beard may trigger a primal response in some women. That’s the exact opposite effect of what I’m going for.”

“A primal response, huh?” Ben laughs. “That’s something I usually aimed for when I was single. Why avoid it?”

“You could always actually date,” Kai suggests.

“Date one of the tourists who wants a fun fling with the local marine biologist without even knowing anything about me except that she likes what I look like?”

“It works for peacocks,” Kai says.

Sometimes I wonder if he puts in the effort of Googling scientific facts just so he can converse with me on my terms. I wouldn’t put it past him. Kai’s the kind of guy who wants everyone around him to be safe and happy—and he enjoys playing a role in providing each of us what we need most.

“Male peacocks are irresponsible and hedonistic.” I edify Kai with factual evidence. “Peacocks don’t mate for life, and they leave the peahen to raise the young on her own while they traipse out to strut their colors in front of female after female. They’re good problem solvers, but when it comes to romance, they’ve got nothing. That’s not me.”

“Not a peacock. Noted.” Kai nods .

Ben barks out a laugh. “Man, the conversations we end up having with you, Stevens.”

My ten o’clock group arrives—a flock of women scheduled to take one of my two-hour tours of the harbor. They’re here on a girlfriends’ four-day weekend, according to the woman who reached out to make the reservation. Along with massages and poolside lounging at the resort, they want to tour the waters surrounding Marbella.

This isn’t the evening champagne cruise or the glass-bottom tour which are both more recreational. I hope they know what they’re in for. I glance at the hands of each of the women. Manicures. Well, here goes nothing.

“Hi, ladies.” I greet the whole group of eight women. “I’m Stevens. I’ll be your guide for our marine exploration tour today. And this is Ben. He’ll be my first mate. If each of you would sign a waiver and grab a life vest from the pile outside the back door, we’ll get going.”

Once the women have completed all the preliminary prep, we lead them to the dock at the harbor where I moor my two boats. One is my private sailboat—a blue water pocket cruiser, the Sea Ya . And the other is a decent-sized trawler for smaller outings of twenty passengers or fewer. When I have to take a larger group on an educational tour, I’m cleared to use one of the monohulls or motorized catamarans owned by the resort.

“How far out in the ocean will we be going?” one of the passengers asks me on our way down the dock toward Catching Wishes .

“We’ll mostly be touring along the shoreline. We’ll anchor in a few spots along the way. And we’ll go a few miles out to drag a net when we’re around the north side of the island. That’s when we’ll pull some sea life up onto the boat.”

She stares up at me. Then she blurts, “You’re not what I had expected when I pictured a marine biologist.”

I wonder if she even listened to my cursory overview of the tour itinerary .

“Do you think of marine biologists often?” I ask her.

“I … Well, not exactly, I guess. But when Sharon told us we were going on a marine biology cruise, I sort of pictured my high school biology teacher.”

“And what was he like?”

“Old. Thinning gray hair. Thick glasses. His teeth were a little yellow. He had a lazy eye …” She trails off.

I’m tempted to cross my eyes and buck out my top teeth, just for a second. But I don’t.

“You’re definitely nothing like him,” she adds, as if her recounting didn’t make her point abundantly clear. “I mean, you’re …” She flicks her hand in my direction and then actually fans her face.

“You okay over there?” I ask.

She titters. “Yeah. I’m fine.” Then she blushes a little.

But her embarrassment unfortunately doesn’t serve as a deterrent.

“You don’t happen to be single?” She looks up hopefully into my eyes.

“I’m in a very committed relationship.” I give her my stock answer.

Yes. It’s true. My committed relationship is with my boats, my secret project, and my belief that one day I’ll meet a woman who isn’t intimidated by my use of multisyllabic words of Latin origin—preferably one who doesn’t fan herself at the mere sight of me.

Mustache experiment: a total and utter fail.

I’d consider the Dali, but I don’t think that would fly with the corporate people I have to interface with in order to support myself. Unfortunately, they determine too many aspects of my life. As Mom would say, hashtag adulting, am I right?

Ben’s walking a good distance ahead of me, thankfully. If he overheard this conversation between me and my most recent admirer, he’d be making light of it for weeks to come. The guys at the watersports shack entertain themselves by poking fun at me and one another .

By the time the eight passengers and Ben are all aboard my trawler, I’ve already decided I’m shaving this mustache as soon as I’m home.

My phone pings. I hold my pointer finger up to Ben. He nods.

I pull my cell out of my pocket, tossing the last line into the boat from the cleat on the dock with my free hand.

A text from Mom.

Mom : It’s been three days since we’ve seen you up here and rumor has it you have a mustache. This I need to see.

I smile. My mom is a character. She thinks she knows current slang, but misuses it half the time. She job shares as an art teacher at the island high school. Mom and Dad still live in the only house I’ve ever called home. Yes. I moved out when I went off to college nearly twelve years ago. When I came back, I got my own place, and it serves me. I have somewhere to sleep, shower and eat. My parents’ house is still home to me though, even if I only visit once or twice a week.

Stevens : Who told you I have a mustache?

Mom : Your sister.

Stevens : Taking a tour out. I’ll call you later. But I haven’t seen Mitzi in a week, so I’m curious how she’d know.

Mom doesn’t share how my baby sister knows about my facial hair. She heard it somewhere, I imagine. The volume of insignificant gossip around Marbella rivals a pandemonium of macaws in the morning. And my sister runs the most popular taco place on the south shores. She gets plenty of opportunity to hear the island chatter.

My mom and sister are always in cahoots. Mitzi’s the middle child and only girl in our family. You’d think having a double X chromosome was an actual accomplishment. My parents act like Mitzi performed some feat by coming out female. I guess the sperm who won the race during her inception might get an award. And since that half of Mitzi’s genetic formulation was ambitious or cunning enough to outrace the other gametes … Scientifically speaking, she does actually win. Go, Mitzi.

Ben waves me toward the boat, indicating I should board.

Mom : Pics or it didn’t happen.

I’m not quite sure that’s the way that phrase is meant to be used, but I grin, take a selfie, hit send, and hop onto Catching Wishes .

I’m pocketing my phone when Mom’s last text flashes on the screen.

Mom : Shave that. Pronto. I want grandbabies someday, and you’re far too handsome to have that kind of cringe interfering with your rizz .

I chuckle. It’s relatively pathetic when a thirty-year-old man needs to consult Urban Dictionary just to converse with his fifty-something-year-old mother, but here we are.

Cringe explains itself.

Rizz? I have no clue.

I look at Ben. I might as well ask.

“What’s the meaning of the word rizz?” I whisper in a confidential tone.

Ben laughs. “Rizz!”

He nearly shouts the word. All eight sets of eyes turn toward us.

And he doesn’t stop there. “Rizz is what you have in spades, man. It’s when women basically faint at the mere sight of you. Live it up dude. You’re the king of rizz. Am I right, ladies?”

The women collectively giggle and stare at me like I’m a brand new Boston Whaler on the auction block .

And now we’ve got two hours on the ocean with my unofficial coronation as our send off.

Needless to say, a marine biology tour is not a fit for this group. They squeal and shriek when Ben and I drag the net to pull up various smaller sea creatures for them to interact with up close. The animals, mostly the size of my fist or smaller, are transferred temporarily into large paint buckets filled with ocean water and a rectangular glass aquarium in the center of the back end of my boat.

We’ve placed a sample of the ocean water on a slide under the microscope at the front of the boat so my passengers can view ocean dwelling microorganisms. I man that station while Ben passes the animals around for the women to admire.

They don’t.

Most of them wince and cower as if the nudibranch (aka sea slug) is going to jump from the clear bowl Ben is holding and attack them. I turn my attention to the first woman to approach the microscope. I’m mere inches away, bent over with her as she peers through the scope at the slide where the microorganisms swirl and swim in their miniature universe.

She lifts her head, looks me in the eyes, then places her hand on my bicep and gives it an unmistakable squeeze.

Then she says, “Thank you. I think your eyes are far more captivating than anything else we’ve seen today.”

I’m sure she means it as a compliment. I smile politely and shout toward the back of the boat, “Next!”

Six out of eight women use my proximity to attempt their own form of marine exploration—of me. The next female passenger blatantly rubs circles on my back while keeping her eye fully pressed to the ocular lens. I step away, causing her hand to drop to her side. One woman even gets so bold as to pretend the boat is rocking when we’re nearly as steady as if we were docked in the harbor. She wobbles and tips, landing flush against me. Then she uses my cheek to brace her fake fall with her palm. Once she’s touching me, she runs her hand along my jawline and hums. It’s so bold a move I nearly blush.

Some men would eat this up. Six women all eager to see if they could have a chance with me? It’s a man’s dream—on paper. In real life, I grew a mustache to avoid this kind of interaction. A mustache that is failing me horribly in my mission to put distance between me and any unwarranted advances. Maybe I’ll start wearing a dive suit on tours, flippers and all. Or I might curate one of those old copper dive helmets. I could go heavy on the Axe body spray. That did the trick in Junior High when I actually wanted to attract a girlfriend. No one in my grade went within five feet of me during my Axe phase. I feel like shouting, Eureka! Axe is actually woman repellant. I think I’m on to something.

Ben shoots me a concerned look from the back of the boat where he’s supposed to be carefully passing around a vellela vellela in a small dish of ocean water. Instead, he’s looking in my direction at the woman who just ran her hand down my jawline, “Ladies, why don’t we all gather at the back of the boat to see what we’ve dragged in today.”

After Ben bails me out, I escort the exuberant passenger toward the bench seats that span the stern where the rest of her friends are sitting.

No one wants to hold any of the limpets or spiny brittle stars we placed into the specimen buckets after trawling the ocean. I’m baffled as to why these women scheduled a marine tour instead of one of the glass bottom excursions or a twilight cruise. I might have an uncanny grasp of the natural world. My expertise doesn’t always transfer to an understanding of human behavior—especially the females of our species.

After two hours touring with the equivalent of the Real Housewives of Orange County , we dock and send the ladies on their way. At least they were generous in making contributions to my “Save the Oceans” dropbox at the stern near the spot where they exit. They have no idea what my secret project is, and I’m certain they couldn’t care less. Once one woman opened her purse and dropped in several hundred dollar bills, they all followed suit, one woman even asked if I take PayPal. I do now.

After another tour with a much more interested group—an extended family of ten—I head to my bungalow four blocks from the beach. I live in a small white wood beach cottage with one bedroom, one bathroom and a modest living room.

I’m drained in the sort of way only tours like my first one this morning can render me. The ocean and its creatures are my passion. I know I’m on one end of a spectrum when it comes to my enthusiasm for sea cucumbers and bottom feeders like the leopard shark. I prefer taking people on my boat who want to discover the mysteries of the ocean and marvel at the vast world beneath the surface.

I make my way through my house into my back yard, shucking my shoes along the way and falling into the hammock. The afternoon breeze blows gently through the branches overhead. The sound of gulls and the faintest whoosh and crash of the tides hitting the distant rocks along the shore relax me as they always have.

I don’t remember drifting off to sleep, but when I wake, the sun has dipped lower, giving a golden glow to my tiny back yard and the surrounding trees.

It’s not quite dinner time, but I’m already hungry, so I warm some leftovers in the microwave. Then I pull out my phone and open the Play on Words app while I sit at my dining table to eat.

Is it wrong to hope SaturdayIslandGirl will be online? I play with other competitors, but our games are the ones I look forward to the most. She doesn’t know what I look like, or anything about me, really. I can be myself with her in ways I can’t in the real world.

I wait a few minutes, nearly succumbing to the disappointment that I’ll have to initiate a match and leave it for her to respond later. Just before I accept a challenge from an unknown competitor, SaturdayIslandGirl’s gamer tag pops up on my sidebar. A few seconds later she’s challenging me to a match .

Are you ready to rumble? She types while both of us receive our tiles.

I smile. It’s the first time I’ve genuinely smiled all day besides the amused grins Ben drew out of me over my mustache—which I’m shaving as soon as I finish playing this game.

So ready. I was born ready. As a matter of fact, I think this is my night to shine . I type my response, still smiling the whole time.

Big words. Let’s see if you can back those up.

I bark out a laugh. She’s fun.

I analyze my tiles. She may be right. But one thing I’ve learned in this game is that you can’t tell where it will lead until you play it out. Just when you think you couldn’t possibly win, you pick up a J and two Zs and you’re able to spell JAZZ, earning yourself twenty-nine points with one seemingly innocuous four-letter word.

We play while I eat, and then I place my plate in the sink and move to the couch in my living room. It turns out SaturdayIslandGirl was right. This may not be my night to shine.

She’s kept her lead the whole game and is currently ahead by six points. Normally, I’d feel a surge of competitiveness. But with her, I’m just glad to be playing—enjoying our ongoing banter and smack talk as much as the actual game itself. She lays down four letters. It’s not a word we use in America, but I know I’m going to let it pass as soon as I see what I can build with my tiles on what she’s set down. Maybe my luck is turning.