“Ahoy, matey,” I reply. “How was the sea today?”

“Wet and salty, like always. If you can wait a minute or two, I’ll give you a lift back to Coolibah.”

“What about my bicycle?”

He shrugs. “You can leave it here, if you like. Dad’ll pick it up on his way home.”

I wait for him to finish putting the boat to bed. The cat does not appreciate this interruption. I remove her from the basket and lean the bicycle against the railing. Leo climbs aboard his moped and I climb behind, one hand holding the cat and the other hooked around Leo’s waist.

I soon realize this was a terrible decision. In my present state of agitation, I should be anywhere on earth but straddling an engine with Leo Lindquist, while the Hawaiian afternoon rushes through my hair. I haven’t slept with anybody in almost a month, a terrible drought, and here is a fresh, warm body under my fingertips, already proven, smelling and feeling exactly right. When we round the point and start toward the Coolibah drive, I burst out, “Just stop here! I think I’ll go surfing for a bit.”

“Surfing? Now?”

“Why not?”

“It’s an hour until dinner.”

“I’ve been working all day. I need a little fresh air.”

He pulls the moped to the side of the road, where the path runs down to the beach. Because hardly anybody else ventures so far, the Lindquists keep a few boards in a small wooden cabana. I set the cat in a pile of towels and shut the door so I can change into a swimsuit. It’s one of Lindquist’s, and it’s a bit long, but it will do. I grab a board and open the door, and there’s Leo, sans shirt.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask indignantly.

“Surfing. ’Scuse me. Got to find a pair of trunks.”

He tells me later that he had no designs on me whatsoever, that he was just worried about me surfing alone. I don’t know about that. One fascinating detail I learned about Leo in the past couple of weeks—he commanded a PT boat in the South Pacific during the war, and such men are always thinking several moves in advance, however straightforward they appear.

We paddle out together. The surf is gentle, and we coast along without speaking, wave after wave, communicating in that wordless way of two people on the water. One wave rises up, bigger than the others, just as I’m about to head in. Maybe I’m tired, maybe I don’t have the chops yet, but I misjudge it completely and tumble into the drink. To his credit, Leo doesn’t try to rescue me. He catches up with me as I stagger onto the beach and asks if I’m all right.