Chasing Waves

I come here every evening to watch the waves crash. Much like the problems we experience in our lives, the waves are a constant. As soon as one crashes, another one is already prepared, crashing right behind it. It results in a consistent ebb and flow—the sound of the tide reaching the shore, then retreating into the unknown of the ocean. Oh, and that clicking sound? That’s my camera. My life became so chaotic, so unbelievable, that I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I did what any insane person would do. I gave up everything, with the exception of whatever I was able to pack into my old Volkswagen Cabriolet, and I moved to a new place. I disappeared somewhere far, far away. Imagine that.

For the past month, I took some time to get my new life straightened out. I got a job at a local beachfront restaurant and tiki bar called George’s. How fitting, given my ocean obsession, right? I found a tiny house for rent, which still has yet to be fully furnished. And finally, I started my search for peace—the conditional offer upon which this new journey continues. My search for peace started here: on the beach every evening, listening to the crashing waves and the clicking of my camera. I’d mostly been photographing the ocean, but sometimes there were other subjects: gulls, cloudy skies, sandpipers, and if I should be so lucky, the occasional dorsal fin.

The beach closest to my new place had seemingly proven itself to be a ‘locals only’ spot, but no one questioned it or raised concern when I started showing up every day. I’d fan out a small blanket or a towel, splaying it sloppily on the hard sand near the tide, and then I’d turn on my speaker at a low volume. I’d get out my camera and start shooting anything that caught my eye, local or non-local. And by definition, once you relocate to a new place, don’t you become a local, anyway? The beach was always so empty during this time of the evening that it never seemed like I was disrupting the flow of things. Until today.

It was much like every other day: a beach blanket underneath me, my speaker at a low volume, and my camera clicking away. I zoomed in on what I thought was a fin, unmistakably. It was out past the break, but the sun was casting such interesting reflections on the glistening water that it was hard to make out exactly what it was until it came closer. I zoomed in and out repeatedly, trying to focus on my subject. When I moved the lens away from my face, I noticed that the evening tide was coming in, bringing with it ferocious waves that battered against the shore. I glanced down to check my blanket and make sure that I wasn’t in danger of getting wet. When my gaze met the water again, I saw it: a thing of true beauty. A surfer caught an evening wave and rode it out until it came crashing onto the shore.

I’d never surfed in my life. Hell, I’d never been good at a damn sport in my life. But surfers were as beautiful as the waves themselves. I immediately started getting shots of my subject—everything from his stance on the board as he waited for the next ride to the excessive paddling to the ride itself. And the ride was breathtaking. Time passed. I kept clicking and shooting until the sun was going down, sinking so low in the sky that it was nearly dark. I turned off my camera, placing it in my checkered Vans backpack gently. I rested back on my elbows with my face to the night sky. It was such a perfect night to feel the evening breeze coming off the ocean, and with the time of year being just on the cusp of summer’s beginning, the weather was just right. I closed my eyes now, listening to nothing but the waves.

“Was everything to your liking?”

I peeled my eyes open, and there was my subject. My surfer. Standing right before me.

“Excuse me?” I asked shyly.

“I noticed you were taking pictures of me.”

“Of the waves,” I corrected him, lying and trying to avoid acknowledging the heat that was spreading across my cheeks. I’ve been caught red-handed.

“Right, I know. I was in them,” he said, smirking at me.

“How long have you been surfing?”

“How long have you been coming to a locals-only spot?” he quickly retorted.

“As long as I’ve been a local.”

This response seemed to shut him up for a moment, and he stood before me, holding his board and eyeing me up skeptically. I decided to return the favor, and I began eyeing him with just as much skepticism, examining him closely. He was much more lifelike, more real, standing before me: skin that was browned by the sun with subtle freckles on his cheeks, light brown hair that had been sun-kissed with natural highlights, and soft, caramel brown eyes. Eyes that didn’t trust me—not one bit. Droplets of salty ocean water ran down his sculpted chest. That’s distracting.

“I’m a local now,” I finally announced, beginning to feel very nervous.

“Since when?” he questioned.

“About a month ago. I just moved down here from up north.”

“Interesting,” he said flatly. “Get any good shots?”

“Yes,” I said, being equally as short with him as he’d been with me.

“May I see them?”

“May you? Jesus. That’s a little formal,” I chuckled.

He laughed at me—a deep, raspy, sweet laugh. I looked out at the waves again, trying to pull myself away from his gaze for just a moment. I need a break.

“What’s your name, camera girl?”

“Summer,” I said, standing to my feet and brushing the sand off my knees. “And yours?”

“Wild,” he said, sounding fascinated.

“You’re Wild?”

“No, your name is fucking wild. I’m Chase. Chase Covington,” he said, extending his hand to me. I shook it, feeling an instant pulse, an instant wave, as my hand met his.

“Chase,” I repeated, enjoying the way his name crashed over the tip of my tongue, unbeknownst to him.

“So, Summer who sits on the beach, will I see you again tomorrow evening?”

His eyes darted to mine as he scanned my face intently.

“I’m here every evening, Chase who chases waves,” I sighed.

“Catch you later then,” he said, his voice sounding sandy and wavy all at the same time. I watched as he walked through the sand to the wooden steps that led to the street.

I packed my things in my bag and fanned out my blanket, dispersing sand particles through the cool night breeze. Then, I made my way up to the same wooden steps and out onto the street, waiting to cross cautiously. The main drag was busy at night. I’d never seen it any other time of year because I hadn’t been here long enough, but I was sure that it would only become more chaotic throughout the summer. It was late May, and Memorial Day was often the kickoff to the summer season—the tourist season. I jogged down the crosswalk with the sand in my Vans rubbing against my feet abrasively. When I made it to the other side, I made two turns to get into my neighborhood.

I’d always wanted to live this close to the beach. With a name like Summer Harper, you’d think I was born in the heat of summer. But no. My parents loved summer. The beach—any beach—was our summer vacation every year. They loved everything about the season, from the beaches to the cookouts to the sweltering heat. So, they named me after the entire season. I was a broad generalization. That was my permanent identity. The sand in my shoes got to be too much as I walked, and I slipped them off, carrying them in my hands. My bare feet padded against the asphalt, which was luckily starting to cool down this time of night. My house was just at the end of the block, and I thought it would be a quick walk until something stopped me dead in my tracks.

“I’ve never had a stalker before.”

I heard a voice that sounded like it was coming from the porch of a house nearby. I looked around, but the neighborhood was dimly lit and it was hard to find anyone. Finally, he came down from the porch, his bare feet hitting the pathway in front of the house until he made it to the picket fence.

“Chase?”

“Summer,” he said with a grin, revealing a pearly white smile.

“I’m not stalking you. I live at the end of the block.”

“We’re neighbors, then,” he suggested.

“I wouldn’t go that far. Neighbors would be like one or two houses down,” I said.

“How far is your walk from here?”

“Less than a minute,” I sighed.

“So we’re neighbors.”

“I guess so,” I agreed, giving in so easily.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“I don’t know. Going home, I guess,” I shrugged.

“Want to come hang on the porch?” he asked.

“We just met. Don’t you think that’s a little weird?”

“It’s not as weird as you taking pictures of a stranger,” he laughed.

“You were surfing. I was taking pictures of the waves you were riding. It doesn’t count,” I said sternly.

“So you’re admitting it, then? That you were taking pictures of me?”

I smiled nervously, a small, dry laugh escaping my lips.

“Sure, I’ll come hang,” I agreed.

He opened the fence gate and let me in, and he led me to the porch. The porch was filled with seating options—everything from a porch swing to a hammock to a hanging macrame chair.

“Take your pick,” he said.

I chose to sit on the porch swing, which was painted white to match the fence. The rest of the house was a soft aqua—exactly the color palette you’d expect for a beach house.

“Want a beer?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said shyly as I sat my backpack, blanket, and shoes on the floorboards next to the swing. He returned quickly, bringing me a cold beer, and he took a seat next to me on the swing.

“I like your backpack,” he said. “And your shoes that you aren’t wearing. Do you skate?”

“No, but I’ve always wanted to,” I admitted, taking a sip of my beer.

“I could teach you,” he offered eagerly.

“You skate, too?”

“It kind of goes hand-in-hand with surfing. We live so close to the beach. Skating is an easy way to get around,” he explained.

“Yeah, it’d be cool to learn one day.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“I have to work in the morning, but I should be off in the afternoon.”

“Great,” he said. “Also, I like your bracelets.” I had an assortment of bracelets I’d been collecting for years, mostly Pura Vida ones, that added bright, beachy color to my wrist. He gently brushed against my wrist with two fingers as he examined them.

“Thanks,” I whispered. The way he touched me was pure adrenaline. It was soft like the foam that the waves left on the beach when the tide was coming in. My skin tingled underneath his fingertips with excitement and intrigue.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, moving his hand away from my wrist.

“No, it’s okay,” I insisted, grabbing his hand as he pulled it away from me. What am I doing? I half-expected him to think I was some sort of freak, but instead, he smiled and laced his fingers with mine as he took another sip of his beer.

“I’m sorry, I just—” I started to explain myself and my actions, but I really didn’t know what I was going to say. I stopped myself from saying anything more, and we just started swinging silently. I knew my palm was sweating as he held my hand, and it only made me more anxious. What is he thinking? Why is he somehow okay with holding my hand? We don’t even know each other. My nerves were getting the best of me, and I was only making myself more uncomfortable. “I should probably get home soon.”

“Stay for a little while,” he said, not breaking his focus on swinging. His eyes were closed now, and his head was leaned back. I could tell that he was just listening and enjoying the night air. The windows were open, and music was playing inside, coming in soft waves through the screens as the breeze blew.

“So, Chase, are you from here? Lived here all your life?” I asked.

“You don’t need to talk if you don’t want to.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I shrugged innocently.

“I mean that you don’t have to feel pressured to talk. To ask me questions. To get to know me. You could just sit here with me and enjoy the breeze if you wanted to.”

“I am enjoying it,” I said, his hand still in mine. I tapped my fingers anxiously on his hand as he held it casually.

“But you’re nervous,” he said, finally opening his eyes and looking over at me. I nodded without saying a word. He’s right. I am nervous. Why am I nervous? Maybe it’s because I don’t hold hands with strangers. Let’s say that. It’s a stupid notion, but let’s say it anyway.

“I normally don’t hold hands with strangers,” I said.

“But you take pictures of strangers?” he laughed.

“Um…” I hesitated.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he soothed.

“Telling someone that they don’t have to be nervous doesn’t exactly prevent them from continuing to be nervous.”

“Well, maybe we should break the ice,” he suggested.

“Haven’t we already? We introduced ourselves, and we’re sitting on your porch drinking beers. And you touched my wrist suggestively, and now you’re holding my hand.”

“Suggestively? I like that,” he chuckled. His warm, honey-brown eyes gazed into mine. They had so many flecks of color—everything from caramel to soft golden-yellow.

“I like your eyes,” I said nervously.

“I like yours.” It seemed that every time I spoke, he immediately had something to say. He was quick with his words, and it surprised me. Pleasantly surprised me. “Yours look like the ocean. They’re sort of blue, sort of green. They’re like the Caribbean Sea.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“I haven’t either, but I’ve seen enough pictures of it to know. Okay, so what do mine look like?” he asked, turning to face me as he tucked his leg underneath of him. His closeness, his proximity to me—it was unnerving.

“They’re like caramel gold, like the sand when the sun is shining on it. And you have flecks of yellow in there, too. Like the sun poking through the clouds.”

“So, wouldn’t you say that, together, our eyes are the beach and the ocean?” he suggested.

“You could say that.”

He laughed quietly, still sitting in the same position. I only looked forward, not making eye contact with him, but I could feel his eyes on me.

“Are you still nervous?” he asked.

“No,” I said softly, gazing straight ahead. He put two fingers under my chin gently, pulling my face toward him. Eye contact.

“How about now?”

“No,” I whispered nervously.

He leaned in, and for a moment, I almost thought he’d kiss me. My heart pounced eagerly at the thought of this enticing stranger, but it quickly receded as he planted a soft kiss on the side of my lips, just under my cheek. I felt myself blush in embarrassment.

“And now?” I shook my head no, not feeling courageous enough to speak. He had me feeling perplexed, nervous, awakened. I wouldn’t admit it though. “Really? This doesn’t make you nervous?” he asked, pulling my face aside and planting a soft, tender kiss on my neck, just below my chin.

“No,” I breathed.

“Do you want another beer?” he asked, noticing that my bottle was empty.

“I should probably get home,” I reminded him.

“You said that already. I just figured if you really wanted to leave, you would have left already.”

He has a point. I’m still here.

“No, thanks. I don’t want another one,” I said, setting the bottle on the floorboards of the porch. But I’d take another of something else. I came back up to meet his gaze again, watching as he smiled innocently back at me.

“What does this mean?” I asked, holding up my hand as his fingers were still laced with mine.

“What do you want it to mean?”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. In fact, I didn’t know how to respond to him in general. I just sat in silence, letting him stare at me with his fascinating, golden-sun eyes. He put down his empty beer bottle next to mine.

“What does this mean?” he questioned. Before I could respond, react, or even think, he released his hand from mine, weaving his fingers through the back of my sunny blond hair. He pulled me so close to his face, leaving only a short distance between our lips.

“What do you want it—”

Before I could finish my thought, his lips landed on mine. They were full and plush and plentifully juicy as he kissed me sweetly. My eyes closed, instantly wanting more, but he ended it just as gently as he had started it.

“What do you want it to mean?” I finally asked, my Caribbean Sea eyes searching his sun-kissed sand ones. He searched mine back, and we were nearly lost in each other’s gazes.

“That I’ll see you again tomorrow,” he said, another pearly smile coming to his face. He kissed my cheek and stood up, picking up our empty bottles and walking into the house. I grabbed my things from the porch and walked down the pathway, leaving out the gate and heading home.