“Not very well, and you can’t jump yet.”

“Chip off the old block, isn’t she?” I observe to Lindquist.

Lindquist shoos them toward the kitchen door. “All right, all right. Go get your cookies and change into your swimsuits. We’re going to take Miss Everett down to the beach and teach her to surf.”

“Don’t worry!” I call after them. “She’s only kidding around!”

A half hour later, I’m standing in the sand with a surfboard while Doris and Wesley demonstrate the essentials of surfing to my thick understanding.

“You see? It’s easy!” Doris calls from the top of a wave.

“Come on out! The surf’s low today!” adds Wesley, just as he spills gracefully from his board into the water.

“Aren’t you worried about sharks?” I ask Lindquist.

“Oh, the sharks always gather where the fish are, near the upswells. We don’t see any around here.” She lifts her surfboard under her arm. “Not often, anyway.”

The water, I’ll admit, is delicious. Most of my experience with oceans has been of the frigid kind, and it’s a nice surprise to stick your toe into a tropical bath instead. I don’t know much about the mechanics of waves, how they form, what physical features of headland and reef and island shelf, what fickle variations of wind and tide and current turn some ordinary ripple into a behemoth worthy of riding into eternity. I do understand that each beach has its own particular wave, like a voice or a signature that might vary in each iteration but still presents a form anybody can recognize. The waves rolling on this beach are happy, gentle waves. Not the kind to set your pulse racing, unless you’re a beginner like me.

“All right,” says Irene. “The first thing is to swim out just past the breakers, where the waves form.”

It occurs to me, as I choke and stroke my way through the surf—yes, actually through those giant breaking waves to get to the relative peace on the other side—that Lindquist might actually be trying to kill me. If some landlubbing photographer dies while attempting to surf, the local authorities will deem this incident a foolish, unfortunate accident, won’t they? There will be some inquest, some noises of regret and humility in the face of nature’s might, and everyone will go on with her life. Except the dead photographer in question, of course.