Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(47)

Indeed they were. Each board had to be nine feet long. John waved her closer.

“You take this surf wax,” he said, moving over the boards, “and spread a layer of it on the board to create a good grip for your feet. That’s so you don’t slip off while riding the wave. You rub it on, like so.”

She watched his shoulders move and his tanned muscles flex.

“You want to make sure there are no slick spots.” He leaned back on his haunches and scanned his board. Satisfied, he pointed to her white and blue board. “All right,” he said. “Have you named your board yet?”

“Named it? No. It was Brett’s board.”

“It’s yours now. You develop a kind of bond with your board. At least, I do. If you love the sport, you’ll spend a lot of time on it. You and the board will go through a lot together.”

Linnea stared at the board, searching her brain for the right name. “It’s a boy board, of course,” she said, thinking that it came from Brett. “And it’s big. . . .”

“How about Big Blue?”

She smiled. “I like it. Big Blue it is.”

“Treat him well, and he’ll give you the ride of your life.” He handed her the wax. “Do the honors.”

She grabbed the bar of wax and shifted to her knees. The dry crabgrass mingled with tiny bits of gravel that dug into her tender skin. But she wasn’t going to complain. She began rubbing the bar in even strokes across Big Blue, pushing hard to get a good spread. At last she straightened and looked at him for approval.

“Good job,” he told her.

She felt inordinately pleased.

“Okay, then.” John rose effortlessly and stuck out his hand to help her to her feet. Then he picked up his board, and tucked it under his arm as though it were a feather.

Linnea looked at Big Blue, remembering how clumsy she’d been with it before. He waited. Determined, she bent to pick it up. She struggled, and it was hardly graceful but she somehow managed. The board was heavy, but what made it unwieldy was its length.

John watched her with a grin on his face.

Her temper sparked. “You’ve got long arms,” she told him crossly. She teetered but finally managed to get a solid grip. When she turned to face him, the back of the longboard smacked into the side of his truck.

She gasped and looked at John, grimacing. “Sorry!”

He laughed, setting his board down. “I don’t think one more bang will make a difference on that old truck.” He took her surfboard in his arms.

“Okay,” he said in a calm voice, and looked squarely at her. “The secret with surfing is to always be centered. On the board, when you’re in the water. On land when you’re carrying the board. And always”—he gently tapped her forehead with his fingertip—“in your head.”

She listened, nodding in understanding.

“If it’s difficult to carry the board under your arm—because it is a big board and you aren’t so big,” he said with a smile, “then you can carry it over your head. Like this.” He lifted her board with enviable ease and lowered it to rest on his head.

She was not convinced.

“Now you try.”

Linnea was game. She centered herself, took a deep breath, then hoisted the board up with a grunt. John helped her this first time to rest it on the top of her head. To her surprise, it didn’t feel too heavy, and once she got the weight centered, she felt in control.

“Hey, I can do this,” she called out, pleased with herself.

“If you’re sure . . .”

“I’m sure. But let’s go! I’m not that strong.”

John gave her a thumbs-up. “Okay, Gidget. It’s not too far.”

Trailing John down the road toward the beach, Linnea concentrated on keeping the giant board balanced on her head. Still she couldn’t help but notice his muscular body. As they crossed Palm Boulevard, she noticed the passing drivers enviously watching the surfers. Usually she was the one sitting behind the wheel. She was the surfer now, and the thought made the surfboard suddenly feel a bit lighter.

The narrow beach path was tough going while balancing the nine-foot board on her head. She kept her gaze straight ahead, carefully moving one foot past the other, praying she didn’t step on a sandspur and end up in a heap in the sand. Linnea’s arms were shaking by the time she felt the first salt-tinged gust of ocean air. She laid her board on the sand with a heavy sigh of relief. She looked over to see John standing with his hands on his hips, looking out over the water. Turning, he waved her over to his side and slid his arm around her shoulders.

“See that cluster of surfers out there?”

She nodded, feeling a thrill at knowing she’d soon be out there with them.

“That’s what we call the break. They’re waiting a few strokes ahead of where the wave’s going to break.” He pointed. “Now watch. . . . In a few minutes a wave will build.”

She watched as the line of surfers got their boards into position. The water swelled behind them, blue and bulging.

“There they go!”

She felt his hand tighten on her shoulder as he pointed out the action. “They paddle hard to catch the wave. Then it peaks. There! See it?” She nodded. “That’s what you wait for. That’s when you hop up and catch it. ’Cause if you do, you get to ride the wave.”