But I don’t ask, and we walk down the beach to the catamarans. Kai talks to the captain of one, who gives us the go-ahead to board.

The sky behind the boat is bright yellow deepening to a fiery orange red. It’s going to be another dramatic sunset.

One of the Outrigger’s crew reaches down and pulls me up the stairs, and Kai follows behind.

Most of the seats are taken, so we stand at the side of the catamaran, half leaning against the lightweight railing.

As the boat pulls out, one of the ship’s hands blows a conch shell, a bellow of sound. Halfway out in the bay, the sails are loosened, snap up, and the wind catches us, sending us swiftly on our way.

My hair is blowing in every direction, and the water sprays. Laughing, I try to catch my hair in one hand, wishing now I had a hair elastic or something to keep it from whipping every which way.

Kai leans forward to take the two mai tai cocktails from a crew member who is filling drink orders, and I take my pinkish punch and clink plastic tumblers with Kai. “To adventure,” I say, smiling nervously.

One of his eyebrows lifts as he taps his cup against mine. “To adventure.”

We drink and turn to watch the sun drop lower, the sky shades of orange, violet, and red. “So where are you from, Jacqueline?”

His question, lazily put, makes me smile. I can’t help remembering the commercial on TV, the one where the woman is getting some serious one-on-one instruction from two very yummy surf instructors while the husband flounders in the distance without any surf help.

“I’ve heard all about guys like you,” I say, and I think it comes out far more prudish than I like.

He’s not worried. “And what have you heard?”

“That beach boys are playboys.”

His eyebrows rise.

I swallow, compelled to continue. “That girls throw themselves at you.”

He’s still looking at me, but he’s smiling faintly. He’s amused. And probably pleased.

Men are such bastards. Especially the young, gorgeous ones.

The corners of his mouth curve upward. “You’re getting all worked up.”

I glare at him. He’s right. I am. Why? Why do I care that men can sleep with anyone and everyone and it’s perfectly acceptable in our culture—while women are supposed to stay home and keep the house tidy and a warm fire burning in the hearth?

“All I did was ask where you’re from,” he adds, lifting his plastic tumbler and looking at me. He’s making fun of me. Me and my worry. Me and my anxiety. Me and my guilt.

Is every woman my age as tied up in knots as I am?