Becky carried her short board out onto the beach easily under her arm the way some women might carry a purse. Just easy as you may please like this is what Becky does. Like this is what Becky IS, right? Not Becky's First Dance here. Not at all.
Ken is there and sure, yes, okay, right right – EX Actly … hotter than hot like some straight up Ken doll that Becky's daughter played with when a little girl! But Becky is no luster when on the beach. When on this beach, no way - only pure “little surfer girl”. Because to be sure, to be exactly certain, THIS is the Beach Boy's tune playing in Becky's head as true as the sun above and these perfect waves peeling off inexorably from one of the best right hand breaks on the planet.
Her cell phone rings: O damn, she thinks, it's Billy! Not wanting to answer. Not now Billy, for God's sake! But she punches receive and says, “hello” just as sweetly as always, listening for a moment, smiling impatiently. She is thinking how this Ken is going to teach her some new tricks. He is an expert. He is “the man” around here Becky has been told.
Finally Becky gets to speak, “Billy”, admonishing mildly, “I told you I don't know how many times to call before you come over. And no I am not home because I am sitting on the beach in Costa Rica.”
Listening again. Poor old Billy tended to wander a bit which at times was almost charming but not this time. “No, I'm not kidding around, Billy,” she says, “it's heavenly here. The jungle is right behind me and it's full of all kinds of wildlife, it's amazing – parrots and monkeys and sloths! The pacific is spread out before me glistening under the sun like the great water goddess that it is. Sand between my toes, the whole deal.” She got rid of Billy quickly though not unhappy that she had spoken with him and in such a grand good mood that she was not even unhappy with herself for getting exactly what she had wanted out of the brief call which was simply to brag a little.
Becky is a Little Surfer Girl today on this amazing beach with its one-of-the-best-in-the-world-right-hand-breaks and she felt that she should be bragging. Why not?
Here comes Ken. She puts down her book and almost instinctively clutches the short board lightly in one hand from where it sits next to her on the sand. She doesn't bother to rise as Ken slides in front of her onto his knees in the sand holding his own book, Becky notices. An older picture of Ram Dass on the cover titled, “Still Here: Embracing Aging, Changing, and Dying” at which she recoils almost viscerally making a face and turning her head away from it looking up at Ken, this beautiful young man who is her instructor now. An expert. “The Man” around here, she has been told by more than one local. She squints since Ken sits with the sun directly behind his perfect Ken doll head wearing a corona like a blond surfer Jesus.
“Ms Lender,” Ken says admiring her short board, “niiice board!” in his constant happy and enthusiastic manner. He wipes sand off of where he had kicked it up a little onto the board.
“So” Becky pipes up trying her best to match Ken's impossibly high energy level, “am I to get my lessons now?”
“Yes”, says Ken, bringing up that book with the old man photo of Ram Dass that she rightly perceives as a kind of approaching slap in the face, “only today, Ms. Lender, I'm more than booked up and we'll be out there -” pointing at the pacific ocean and that right hand break.
2
“Riding one of the best right hand breaks on the planet,” Becky interrupts happily, repeating what she had read in the little book that she had just bought in the gift shop next to the adorable surf board rental shack painted bright purple. She didn't really know exactly what that meant not having gotten that far into the book, truth be told. But is sounded to her ear like the most beautiful kind of poetry.
“So” Ken continued, “here's my deal, Ms. Lender -”
“Call me Becky”.
“Becky, of course. Becky suits you perfectly, yes. So I'll teach you to surf but my first concern for anyone is the safety of my clients. I'm sure you understand?”
“Of course” Becky shook her head up and down.
“So from that most expert, professional and heart centered place inside of me which has only love and respect for you, Becky, I'd like to make a deal with you. You read this and then if you want, I will take you over to a safe beach I know and we'll do the lessons just like I said we would, for free, my pleasure.” Brushing sand off of her leg, he stands quickly with the sun still behind him holding down the book to her.
“So I have to then?” Trying not to look at the thing as bitterly as she felt.
“Yes,” says Ken, “Yes. If you want me to instruct you. That's the deal I am making with you, fair and square. You can accept my deal or not and we're still on for dinner tonight at the club – I hope?” Smiling like the perfect goddamn Ken doll that he is, “deal then?”
With one hand taking the book and the other shaking Ken's hand to cement the deal, she looks at the book as if for the first time, putting her reading glasses on then, saying, “you sure do like the word, 'yes', don't you, Ken?”
“Yes I do like 'yes'”, Ken smiles. He squats taking her hand now in both of his, leaning in conspiratorially, “I don't usually give up my secrets,” pointing out at that right hand break, “but out there if I'm thinking anything at all it is 'YES YES YES YES'. That's how I surf and I'd appreciate it if you keep that secret between your own dear heart and mine”. Before Becky can answer Ken rises easily and in one motion twists around and speeds off kicking up little puffs of sand with his bare feet, calling back over his shoulder, laughing, “I'll think of you now as 'my little surfer girl'”, he calls back over his shoulder, “I'll pick you up at eight for dinner”.
Becky looks down at the book and she cannot help but laugh a little. She runs her fingers down the cover as if touching a lovers face for the first time. She squints out into the Pacific at that right hand break, whatever THAT is, realizing that she cannot say no to yes. After all, Becky didn't get to her eightieth birthday by being a dumb ass.
