4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

From the seat of the ATV, I do a final sweep of the beach before we close up the tower for the day. It’s early season and the tourists haven’t fully swarmed the sand, bringing with them seagulls, sunscreen, and stupidity.

That might sound harsh, but I cannot tell you how many people don’t understand that the ocean isn’t the same as a wading pool. There are waves, for starters. Unpredictable currents, undertows, critters.

It’s wild and I love it, especially the surfing part and I long for a last-minute surf sesh before the sun sets.

After being on the surf team in high school for a few years, I competed professionally. It was a good time and I respect pro surfers’ massive skills, but I’m more of a soul surfer kind of guy. Right now, it’s a rising tide, light southwest wind, and medium period swell. This means I’m going to catch some gnurlies after I do safety checks and file my shift report.

“Poseidons, I’m coming for you.”

Yes, I’m talking to the surf break, but it’s been a long day, and without anyone to go home to or even a pet to tell about my morning at the Prism Point Resort, Bartie trying to schmooze with his Manuka Mamas, or the rather uneventful afternoon with sunbathers and bodyboarders not causing any trouble, the ocean is my sounding board.

As the tide rolls in, the water is getting close to a woman who’s been lying in the sand for the last few hours. I spotted her earlier, but figured she was working on her tan. At a second glance, she sparkles, glitters, uh, sequins? I tilt my head. Reclined in the sand, she’s wearing a gold sequined gown and is barefoot.

Easing up on the quad’s throttle as I approach, I holler to her. “Miss, the lifeguards are leaving for the day. With the tide coming up, just thought you’d like to know.”

Unless I spot danger or someone comes up to me, I’m not in the habit of questioning anyone’s beach habits or sunbathing styles.

She doesn’t acknowledge me, so I come to a stop and repeat myself. As my silhouette casts a shadow over her, she comes to and leans on an elbow, blinking her eyes. Her hair is a windblown mess and little black wisps of what look like eyelashes dot her cheeks. Even though we don’t have the same kind of lobster here as they have in the northeastern part of the country, she resembles one.

Disoriented, she doesn’t look at me when she says, “Oh, my goodness. I traveled from overseas and hardly slept during the flight. It must’ve caught up with me and I fell asleep.” She has a slight accent, a combination of British and French, maybe. She’s still groggy and probably thirsty from being out here for hours.

“Wouldn’t want you to spend the night on the beach. Not that camping is allowed,” I say, feeling awkward and blasting to smithereens Bartie’s claim that I’m charming.

Not that I was trying to be. However, there’s something familiar and sweetly innocent about this woman, despite her hot mess appearance.

She brings her fingers to her face and pats her cheek lightly. “I think I laid out a little too long. Am I red?”

My eyebrows shoot up because red is an understatement.

She looks up at me and our eyes meet. Hers are gray and so familiar that my mouth falls open. Maybe I’ve been out here too long. Took one too many wipeouts. Swallowed too much seawater.

Giving my head a shake, I remember that I’m here to do my job and not think about the girl I fell in love with during high school.

“It’s routine procedure to bring someone as sunburned as you are over to the tower for some water and to make sure you’re okay.” I learned early on to leave out the part about dehydration and sun poisoning because hearing that tends to freak people out and they fly into a panic, which doesn’t help if their system is already under stress from solar overexposure.

“Are you okay with walking or would you like a ride?” I gesture to the quad.

Slowly getting to her feet, she looks down at her dress, damp and covered in sand. Hiking it to her knees, she says, “If you happen to have some water, I’d appreciate it.”

“Don’t forget your car keys.”

She glances at the sand. But there’s no towel, bag, or other personal items. Not even a pair of shoes. Alarm crosses her features.

Concern prompts me to ask, “Were you robbed?”

“No, I didn’t steal the car. Just borrowed it.”

Slightly confused but relieved, I exhale, realizing what this is. She probably got in a fight with her significant other, left to cool off, and then fell asleep.

“Let’s head over to the tower and then you can be on your way.”

She climbs onto the quad behind me and grips my shirt. Even though I’m taking it slow, as we start to move, she jerks back and then wraps her arms around me as if hanging on for dear life.

This is definitely one of the stranger “rescues” I’ve done. I’m not going to admit to Bartie or anyone else that I’ve seen The Little Mermaid, but I’m getting the sense that she made a bad bargain with a sea witch, given her scratchy voice and washed-up on-shore vibes. Her long, wind-tossed hair and trouble-in-paradise appearance complete the picture.

Nick, the other lifeguard on duty, is already closing up the tower when we get back.

I ask, “Have somewhere to be?”

“Unlike you, I have a date—” He goes quiet and still.

I turn around and realize the woman followed me up here. I assumed she’d have waited on the beach. It’s kind of given that civilians don’t come up here. Once more, our gazes meet and there’s something familiar about her, but I can’t figure it out.

“I’m grabbing you a water bottle. You can wait down there.” I point to the safety of the sand.

Nick says, “We have to restock. I gave the last one to Geppetto.”

He’s a homeless guy who makes his rounds, coming to our tower once a week for water.

Turning back to Little Mermaid, I say, “Miss, we can head to the lifeguard station. The main building isn’t far.”

Her gaze is glued to the parking lot where a police officer examines a teal convertible.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

As if coming out of her sunburned stupor, she says, “Yeah. Fine. I should probably get going.” She starts backing down the ladder and her foot catches on her gown. As she loses her footing, I reach for her arm, catching her before she tips backward.

“I’m okay. I’m fine. Everything is okay. Everything is fine. My eye is not twitching,” she stammers.

“Miss, I have to insist we get you some water—” Maybe do a wellness examination too.

She hustles down the ladder and I follow. I’m about to comment on how she’s disoriented and shaky on her feet, but I am too. There’s no way this is possible.

Backlit by the setting sun, I think I’m looking at Dee Dee.

“Sunny?” she asks. “Sunny, is that you?”

My jaw lowers.

When I left for dawn patrol this morning, finding the one who got away on the beach was the last thing I expected, yet here she is in her wild hair, sun-parched, golden-gowned glory.