Dear John(16)

“You don’t have a car?”

“No. I hitched a ride this morning.”

“Do you want Tim to drive you home? I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You said it was a long walk, right? I’ll have Tim drive you. Let me get him.”

She raced off before I could stop her, and a minute later Tim was following her out of the house. “Tim is happy to take you,” she said, looking way too pleased with herself.

I turned toward Tim. “You sure?”

“No problem at all,” he assured me. “My truck’s out front. You can just put your board in the back.” He motioned to the board. “Need a hand?”

“No,” I said, rising, “I got it.” I went to the chair and slipped on my shirt, then picked up my board. “Thanks, by the way.”

“My pleasure,” he said. He patted his pocket. “I’ll be back in a second with the keys. It’s the green truck parked on the grass. I’ll meet you out front.”

When he was gone, I turned back to Savannah. “It was nice meeting you.”

She held my gaze. “You too. I’ve never hung out with a soldier before. I felt sort of . . . protected. I don’t think Randy’ll give me any trouble tonight. Your tattoos probably scared him away.”

I guess she had noticed them. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“You know where I’ll be.”

I wasn’t sure whether that meant she wanted me to come visit again or didn’t. In many ways, she remained a complete mystery to me. Then again, I barely knew her at all.

“But I am a little disappointed that you forgot,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

“Forgot what?”

“Didn’t you say that you’d teach me how to surf?”




If Tim had any inkling of the effect Savannah had on me or that I’d be visiting again the next day, he gave no indication. Instead he focused mainly on the drive, making sure he was heading in the right direction. He was the kind of driver who stopped the car even when the light was yellow and he could have sailed through.

“I hope you had a good time,” he said. “I know it’s always strange when you don’t know anyone.”

“I did.”

“You and Savannah really hit it off. She’s something, isn’t she? I think she liked you.”

“We had a nice conversation,” I said.

“I’m glad. I was a little worried about her coming down here. Last year her parents were with us, so this is the first time she’s been on her own like this. I know she’s a big girl, but these aren’t the kind of people she usually hangs out with, and the last thing I wanted was for her to be fending off guys all night.”

“I’m sure she could have handled it.”

“You’re probably right. But I get the feeling that some of these guys are pretty persistent.”

“Of course they are. They’re guys.”

He laughed. “I guess you’re right.” He motioned toward the window. “Which way now?”

I directed him through a series of turns, then finally I told him to slow the car. He stopped in front of the house, where I could see the light from my dad’s den, glowing yellow.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, opening my door.

“No problem.” He leaned over the seat. “And listen, like I said, feel free to stop by the house anytime. We work during the week, but weekends and evenings are usually clear.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I promised.




Once inside, I went to my dad’s den and opened the door. He was peering at the Greysheet and jumped. I realized he hadn’t heard me come in.

“Sorry,” I said, taking a seat on the single step that separated the den from the rest of the house. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay,” was all he said. He debated whether to set aside the Greysheet, then did.

“The waves were great today,” I commented. “I’d almost forgotten how fantastic the water feels.”

He smiled but again said nothing. I shifted slightly on the step. “How’d work go?” I asked.

“The same,” he said.

He lapsed back into his own thoughts, and all I could think was that the same thing could be said about our conversations.





Three




Surfing is a solitary sport, one in which long stretches of boredom are interspersed with frantic activity, and it teaches you to flow with nature, instead of fighting it . . . it’s about getting in the zone. That’s what the surfing magazines say, anyway, and I mostly agree. There’s nothing quite as exciting as catching a wave and living within a wall of water as it rolls toward shore. But I’m not like a lot of those dudes with freeze-dried skin and stringy hair who do it all day, every day, because they think it’s the be-all and end-all of existence. It isn’t. For me, it’s more about the fact that the world is crazy noisy almost all the time, and when you’re out there, it’s not. You’re able to hear yourself think.”