“Oh, right.” He sounded ridiculously relieved. “Sure, I can get you that. We were going to hang out at the beach this afternoon. There’s a swell coming in off the Pacific that looks awesome. Mitch was going to ride with us. You want to come, too?”
“Mitch?”
“That’s Ches’s dad. He’s a Staff Sergeant.”
“Well, that would be great. What time were you going to go?”
“About 3:45 pm. We could pick you up?”
“Um … are you going to Point Loma again?”
“Maybe … we were going to sort of drive around till we found the best break.”
Oh, well…
“In that case, yes, I’d love a ride. Are you sure it’ll be okay with Mitch and your friends?”
“Sure!”
He answered so quickly I couldn’t help a small chuckle escaping. “Well, okay, but I’d feel happier if I could talk to Mitch first.”
With some reluctance that had me smiling to myself, Sebastian gave me his friend’s number and confirmed three times that he’d see me after school at 3:45 pm.
I hung up, still smiling. Then I redialed for Sergeant Peters. A woman answered.
“Hi there, Peters’ residence.”
“Oh, good morning. My name is Caroline Wilson—I’m Commander David Wilson’s wife. I was wondering if I could talk to Sergeant Peters.”
“Oh. Good morning, Mrs. Wilson. This is Shirley Peters. I’m afraid Mitch isn’t available at present. May I take a message?”
“Yes, thank you. This will probably sound a little odd, but I understand Mitch is taking the boys surfing this afternoon and I wondered if I could tag along.”
She hesitated long enough to let me know that this sounded more than just a little odd. I rushed to fill in the blanks for her.
“It’s just that I used to write some stories for the local paper back east,” I said, exaggerating slightly, “and I hoped to try and do the same here—I thought an article on Base personnel who go surfing would be interesting. I was hoping your husband could give me some tips.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure that Mitch will be just fine about that, Mrs. Wilson.”
She still sounded surprised and I knew why—officers’ wives didn’t have much to do with the families of the enlisted ranks. A distinction that had always rather offended me.
In the end, we agreed that Mitch would call me if there was a problem, otherwise I was to be ready to go at 3:45 pm.
“Um, Mrs. Wilson, that van is pretty old; the boys use it for all their surf stuff. It’s got half the beach in there. Well, I wouldn’t want you to ruin any of your clothes.”
I was touched by her thoughtfulness.
“Thank you, Mrs. Peters. I’ll wear an old beach dress then. Thank you so much.”
After that, I felt full of energy, delighted with how the day was panning out. I drove over to the library, got online to check up on the local surf spots, and also to find out a bit more about what kind of stories City Beat ran.
I just had time to stop by the Kwik Shop to stock up on groceries for supper and, as an afterthought, picked up a dozen focaccia rolls before running home to change into my old, yellow sundress and pick up my notebook.
I filled the rolls with pastrami, lettuce and tomatoes, and was finishing wrapping them up in kitchen paper and loading them into a cardboard box when I heard a horn honk outside. I grabbed my camera and notebook, swiped a bottle of pressé from the refrigerator and scooted out to meet my surf Svengalis.
Sebastian had already leapt out of the van, smiling hugely.
“Hi, Caroline!”
He looked so thrilled to see me; I didn’t have the heart to be cool.
“Hello, Sebastian. Could you help me with this? I brought some sandwiches for you and your friends.”
“Wow, thanks!”
He tucked the box under one arm and opened the passenger door. “This is Mitch, um, Staff Sergeant Peters.”
Mitch Peters was a thick-set man of medium height with the trademark Marine buzz-cut. “Mrs. Wilson, pleased to meet you.”
“Oh, call me Caroline, please. You’re doing me the favor. I really appreciate you letting me crash your surf safari.”
He smiled and his face immediately relaxed. “No problem, Caroline. It’ll make these beach bums mind their manners. Right, boys?”
Then he introduced me to his son Ches, Sebastian’s friend, whom I recognized from a few days back; Bill, Mitch’s buddy; and another boy they called Fido, for some reason.
I sat in the front, sandwiched between Mitch and Bill, and the boys crowded into the back of the van among a motley collection of surfboards, body boards, wetsuits, and strange, shiny t-shirts that I was told were rash vests.