His mouth went dry. He licked the sea salt from his lips, the sweetness of the coconut she’d cut for him. But now they were alone in the shadow of the palms, half hidden by the bushes of big leaves that grew just behind them.

He nodded, and fearing that she had not seen him clearly enough, he spoke. “Yes—yes.”

“J’aime,” she said, reaching for his hair and clawing it slowly, “vos cheveux d’or.”

He made an attempt to pick up the coconut, but when he did she closed her legs on it again, and on his hands, and she laughed softly. Her thighs were warm against his hands as she laughed again, teasingly. She was staring past him at the setting sun—her cat eyes gilded by it—and the sun sank, too slowly he thought. When they were in darkness she put her face near his—did not kiss him but inhaled deeply, against his nose.

“Where?’ he said. “When?”

“Ici,” she said. She flung the coconut aside and pushed his head into her lap, clasping it as she had clasped the coconut, and whispered, “Maintenant.”

Her name was Fillette, she told him after they’d made love and were lying half asleep on the grass. And that became the pattern of their days—she greeted him in the morning and then was gone—“J’aide ma mère dans le jardin”—his school French was a help, but there was much she said that he did not understand. “Garden” meant gathering coconuts and bananas. He surfed all day, she met him at sundown in the bower beneath the palms, and when his week was over she was laughing, he was tearful.

Before her brother drove him to the airport, Sharkey said, “I’ll come back.”

“Je serai une vieille femme alors.” And she laughed again.

“Fillette she say, she be old woman then,” her brother said, settling behind the wheel.

At home, in the circle of lifeguards after work, he told his story to the others, who listened intently. He was the adventurer, with the power of the sexy tale of the Tahitian girl at the break at Teahupo‘o.

Then Eddie said, “What about the waves?”

“Awesome.”

He described the configuration of the break, how solitary it was, the good days, his rides, how the girl had said that in winter it was huge. But his mind was not on the waves, because all he could think of was the expression she’d taught him, which he was too shy to share with these boys, words he had not learned at school: “Goûtez-moi”—taste me.

The surf subsided in early spring and the ocean flattened, shimmered as a lake of blue—more swimmers, easier rescues, later sunsets, and still the girls lingered by the lifeguard chair, calling to him, teasing him.

“Haole boy!” But it was affectionate, flirtatious.