Tides & Trysts

By Philip Kirby

"Tides & Trysts" is a contemporary coming-of-age story about a fourteen year old boy and his buddies as they adventure through the rites of passage of high school, college, and beyond. Deeply relatable and wonderfully written, this novel is a light-hearted romp taking him through his school years in San Clemente, California, his summer visits to his grandfather's home in Daytona Beach, Florida, and his college years at Fresno State.

Throughout this novel, the protagonist and his friends realize that growing up means growing pains are inevitable. The learning curve that enlightens boys from puberty through manhood with its rites of passage, its dreams, fantasies, and rude awakenings impacts Aquinas Flynn in a realistic and sometimes humorous tale taking him from coast to coast, youth through college, and life beyond. Timeless and personal, this endearing novel is a must-read for readers of all ages and backgrounds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667835396

Philip Kirby

Philip Kirby earned his Masters in Education from Cedarville University. He lives in Ohio where he teaches science and enjoys spending time outdoors with his wife and children. He is especially talented at doing character voices when reading children's books. He is a self-proclaimed bacon connoisseur.

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Tides & Trysts

© 2022 Philip Kirby

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-1-66783-5-389

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66783-5-396

To Sandy

For being there.

Beyond the blue horizon

Waits a beautiful day

Table of Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1 The Flight

Chapter 2 The Arrival

Chapter 3 Busted

Chapter 4 Revenge

Chapter 5 Surf’s Up

Chapter 6 Confrontation

Chapter 7 Bachelor in Paradise

Chapter 8 Turtle Nest

Chapter 9 Raider’s Game

Chapter 10 Hatchlings

Chapter 11 Beak & Rudder

Chapter 12 Sophomore Hop

Chapter 13 Summer in San Clemente

Chapter 14 First Class

Chapter 15 Trade-Offs

Chapter 16 Dumped

Chapter 17 Hungover

Chapter 18 Wesley

Chapter 19 Modeling

Chapter 20 Fishing

Chapter 21 Hurricane Irene

Chapter 22 Chevy Camero

Chapter 23 First Paycheck

Chapter 24 Senior Ball

Chapter 25 Goodbye to Trustflare

Chapter 26 The Colonel gets the Boot

Chapter 27 Professor Pwipe

Chapter 28 Dougie

Chapter 29 Spring Break

Chapter 30 Spaghetti and Golf Balls

Chapter 31 New Roommate

Chapter 32 Three to Daytona

Chapter 33 The Hunt for Housing

Chapter 34 Frat House Failure

Chapter 35 Di Graziano Farms goes Public

Chapter 36 Olivia Bella

Chapter 37 Mexican Restaurant

Chapter 38 Pompano

Chapter 39 Mexico

Chapter 40 Fall Semester

Chapter 41 Bass Lake

Chapter 42 Dumped II

Chapter 43 Beak & Sophia’s Apartment

Chapter 44 Tuxedo

Chapter 45 Abe Cohn

Chapter 46 The Proposal

Chapter 47 Godfather

Chapter 48 Florida Keys

Chapter 49 Mr. Toot Dies

Chapter 50 Hoodwinked

Chapter 51 Irunamucka

Chapter 52 The Date

EPILOGUE

Foreword

PHILIP KIRBY was raised in northern California and now resides in the small town of Ormond by the Sea, Florida. His experiences are reflected in the story by his love for swimming, fishing and all things to do with the ocean. There isn’t a more perfect place on Earth then the beach to view life cycles from the tiniest fish in the clean, clear water of the Atlantic at the very shore line to the graceful dolphins cruising by just beyond the breaking waves. A gold star for Creationism would be for the Loggerhead turtles that deposit their eggs on the very beach where they hatched years previously when the water temperature becomes warm and pleasurable in the summer months. Here’s to the finest fishing machine ever designed, the Pelican.

Tides & Trysts is a contemporary, coming of age story about a fourteen year old boy. It’s a light hearted romp taking him through his school years in San Clemente, California, his summer visits to his grandfather’s home in Daytona Beach, Florida and his college years at Fresno State. The learning curve that enlightens boys from puberty through manhood with its rites of passage, its dreams and fantasies and rude awakenings impacts Aquinas Flynn in a realistic and sometime humorous tale taking him from coast to coast, youth through college and life beyond.

Also By Philip KirbY

Lord Claremont

Email Address:

[e-mail]

Chapter 1

The Flight

Aquinas Flynn, please come to the podium, gate 4.

That’s me, and if English is your second language, Spanish your first, it comes out Aqui nas Fleen as it did in this case. Being from Southern California, that’s to be expected.

I’m on my way to visit my grandfather, Gramps, in Daytona Beach, Florida. So it’s from here, Orange County, CA to Atlanta, GA then change planes and on to Daytona.

I’ve requested a first class seat using the miles accrued from previous trips. My parents buy the ticket, I get the miles. I thought this was a pretty cool idea but now I’m not so sure. What if kids can’t fly first class unaccompanied by an adult? What if they arrest me for fraud or something?

Aquinas Flynn, I said.

Ah, yes...er...Sir.

She wasn’t expecting a skinny, 5 foot 5 inch 14 year old to answer to such a grand, if hard to pronounce, name.

First class is fully booked so please use the boarding pass you were issued.

Yeah, sure lady, you probably gave my seat to some VIP so the stewardesses could hit on him. They’ve just called my zone to board and everyone has jammed the gate area. Idiots. Why don’t they just wait their turn? I worm my way through the mob only to wait in line in the tunnel. I’m not pissed, just disappointed. For once I wanted to fly without some behemoth crowding me. I spot my row with a guy in the aisle seat. He stands to let me in. So far the middle seat is empty but there’s a ton of people pouring down this way. I watch as the cabin door is closed and the stragglers find their seats. Lookin’ good. Aisle Guy thinks so, too. He nods with a grin.

Oh, God, where did she come from? Too big to have been hiding in the cockpit. Ahoy, mates, thar she blows. Moby Dickless. Watch your elbows. Launched, her beam passes between the seat backs like the QE2 through the locks of the Panama Canal. She drops anchor, that being a McDonald’s bag she had been holding in a two handed death grip. The leviathan sees I have room to spare, sits and grins. Something warm and moist has snuggled against my thigh. Following a line of least resistance, blubber has found a route under the arm rest. Well kiss that part of my seat goodbye. Ugh! Scratch that thought.

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We are next in line for takeoff. Once airborne, we will reduce power in accordance with a Noise Reduction Policy. Full power will resume when we clear the area.

The last time I took a flight out of the Orange County airport was the first time I actually gave this statement much thought. When you’re very young you assume adults know what they’re doing. Now I question the wisdom of cutting power while trying to gain altitude. Seems counterproductive, if not downright dangerous. What did those knuckleheads think when they bought a home bordering an airport?

We’re up, then level off and power is reduced. My stomach knots and something foul tasting gurgles up to back of my throat. It happens whenever I get stressed. Mom says I’ll outgrow it.

Gramps is my mom’s father, Thomas Aquinas Hanrahan, named after his grandfather. As the family story goes my great, great grandfather’s last name should have been hooligan—better at making babies than money. But Gramps, Tom to his friends, did just fine. Retired from the Marine Corps after 20 years as a Captain, two tours in Viet Nam and a battle field commission. He came up with a new type of valve for the plumbing industry, sold the patent, invested the money and now lives in a house he designed right on the sand.

My parents deviated slightly from the family tradition. They did the skipping a generation thing but named me Aquinas NMI (no middle initial) Flynn. To those at school my nick name is Quine but to my best friends and family I’m Q.

I’ve just been aroused from that state before nodding off by a rustling of paper. My seat mate is clawing the bottom of her McDonald’s bag for an elusive French fry, no doubt.

Not too long ago I wandered into our kitchen to find Mom, peeler in hand, attacking a mountain of carrots. I’m guessing she found a recipe on Oprah and mixed up ounces for pounds. The garbage disposal decided it had enough and went on strike. Mom thumped the wall switch out of frustration and received bruised knuckles for her trouble.

Q, would you get your father, please?

Dad can be found in the garage on his day off tinkering with one of about 50 unfinished projects.

Mom needs you.

This will be a no-brainer for Dad. He’s an engineer for Southern Pacific Railroad designing more efficient diesel engines. He wiped his hands on one of those red shop towels and followed me in.

It was one of those deer in the headlights stares as Dad looked from Mom to the carrots to the orange tinted sink water. He went into the water elbow deep and came up with hand full after hand full of orange mulch, dumping each into the garbage pail. The water started to recede so he tuned on the tap, reset the little red button on the bottom of the disposal and flipped the wall switch. Away she purred.

Are you planning to peel all of those?

Mom grinned and nodded.

Dad looked at me and chuckled, You know where to find me.

Apparently people don’t have that same overload protection. This lady’s jaw would have locked years ago.

We’ve cut power for our approach to the Atlanta airport. This is a good thing so no reaction from the ‘ol tum-tum. The pilot has had 5 hours to read the How to Fly a Plane manual and now must have started on How to Land. Let’s hope he does better on the Cut Power on Landing part than he did on the Increase Power on Takeoff part.

Why do people applaud when the plane touches down? I don’t think a good landing should be judged by how high you bounce out of your seat. Maybe people are just relieved they didn’t crap their pants. I’m always glad when I don’t but you won’t see me clapping my hands and patting myself on the back.

It’s been a long day but this is the last leg. Destination Daytona Beach International Airport. The international part is questionable unless you think Florida is a foreign country.

Chapter 2

The Arrival

Gramps is waiting in baggage claim standing in the same spot as always with a clear view of the escalator.

Hi, Q, how was the flight?

We shake hands and I give the only answer anyone wants to hear. Great, Gramps.

I get some attaboys on the back. Got any luggage?

Just this, holding up my canvas back pack. It’s all I ever bring but if I brought a suitcase and he brought his Corvette we’d have a problem. So neither does either.

Gramps has three cars: a new black Cadillac every year, a new red Corvette every year and an old Jeep. Hard to tell how old but he’s had it for as long as I can remember. No top, not even canvas and no doors but he keeps the dark green paint shiny and the chrome rims sparkling. I throw my bag in the back of the Jeep and before starting the engine Gramps turns to me.

I told the Colonel you were coming, says Gramps.

The Colonel—40 pounds of loyalty and love. Gramps got him from a shelter and the two are buddies. What attracted him in the first place was the Colonel wasn’t barking and jumping around like the others but seemed to be posing. The dog reminded him of those bodybuilders straining to flex their muscles. Once on a leash, the Colonel pranced around the kennel showing off to the orphans that he had been chosen. Not only does he know what you’re saying, he knows what you’re thinking and I learned that the hard way. It was the first time I met the Colonel and I thought that thing could win an ugly dog contest, easily. He looks to be part Jack Russell and part Jack Rabbit so I got the stink eye from both man and beast.

The house is two stories, six bedrooms, six bathrooms and three half baths. The first floor wings are separated by an archway running from the steps in front all the way through to the pool in the back. As you move up the steps the first thing you see is the ocean then the white powdery beach. You can’t see the pool, which runs the length of the east side of the house, until you reach the end of the archway. The tile walkway continues over the pool to the lawn.

The staff consists of the Sanchez family. Guadalupe, Lupe, runs the show barking orders in Spanish so fast I don’t think I would understand if they were in English. Alfredo keeps the place in tiptop shape from the landscaping to the plumbing and electrical. Lupe keeps their little daughter, Dolores, busy with minor chores.

Lupe is short, cylindrical in shape with calves that run straight to her feet; no ankles. They seem similar to an elephant’s, not in size but in structure. She’s a little overbearing at times but keeps the place running smoothly.

Alfredo is thin, medium height and has a great smile. He’s good at what he does, the upkeep on a large home on the ocean is demanding. I’ve never heard him speak English but one day he and Gramps were in the gazebo having a couple of beers and yucking it up. That might not be a clue, though.

Dolores is a cute little thing that has never seen a mirror she didn’t like. She twirls around the house with great animation as if she’s constantly on camera. Not once has she ever made eye contact with me. I’ve always found that strange, it’s as if I don’t exist to her.

The Colonel bounces around Gramps like a Whirling Dervish as we come in the house. You’d think he’d been gone a week rather than an hour. Now the dog has his paws stretched out in front with his butt in the air.

He’s mad at me now, says Gramps.

The Colonel barks at Gramps and runs to his toy box, pulls out a stuffed squirrel and tries to wring its neck.

When I come home later than I was supposed to, Mom seems to run through the same emotions; glad to see me home but mad for making her worry. (minus squirrel in mouth)

Are you hungry, Q?

Starving.

Gramps rummages around in the fridge and comes up with a sandwich and some potato salad.

Loop de Loop made this for you, the gang went to a wedding or funeral or something.

That’s Gramps name for Lupe, for me it’s Loopy but since it comes out Lupe, all’s well. The string of weddings and funerals is unending and her grandmother seems to die at least once a summer.

The sandwich looks great but my mind wanders back to another time when Lupe left us to fend for ourselves. Gramps began to school me on how to make a sandwich. I watched as he sets two paper towels side by side then placed a dinner knife and a steak knife on one towel. Next, it was one small plate for slicing then a dinner plate for building the sandwich. He moved to the refrigerator and removed tortillas, mayonnaise, mustard, cheddar cheese, onion, tomato and sliced roast beef. Slathering the tortilla with mayonnaise much like a mason with plaster, though more lovingly, construction began. A slice of cheese first then sliced onion, a generous portion of roast beef topped with Boar’s Head Pepperhouse Gourmaise, sliced tomato with pepper and salt and another slice of cheese. The tortilla is then folded diaper fashion and held together by a toothpick.

In order for a sandwich to qualify as being properly made it must pass the 4-H test.

OK, I said, having no idea what he’s talking about.

Lift the sandwich and weigh it in your hands. Is it heavy?

Yes.

Good. That’s H #1­—heavy. Second it must be handsome.

It’s the best looking sandwich I’ve ever seen.

Number 3—hardy. In its previous life it had to moo or oink. If it’s chicken or turkey it must also be made with bacon. Fish is allowed only if you caught it.

By then I’d done everything but eat the darn thing.

Finally, it must be healthy. Check to be sure all essential food groups are represented as they are here. When you’re older you can skip all four rules if you accompany any ol’ sandwich with a Guinness.

I wolfed down the meal Lupe fixed without thinking much about it but I definitely enjoyed it.

The Colonel is ready for bed. He takes a few steps up the staircase, turns to see if my grandfather is coming and if not, stares and sends some sort of mental telepathic threat of misbehavior.

I’m coming, Boy. Then turning to me he says, good night, Q, sunrise at six-thirty two.

Good night, Gramps, see you then.

It’s ten PM here but for my body clock it’s three hours earlier. I’ll go up too, text Mom I made it, check e-mail, see what’s on TV.

My bedroom faces East and it’s huge. All six bedrooms are on the second floor, two facing East, the other four West. Gramps’ bedroom occupies the Northeast corner, mine’s in the Southeast unless I get bumped. Sometimes my parents visit when I’m here and they get this room. If the whole gang comes, my sister, her husband and their two daughters, I’m banished to the Northwest corner. All bedrooms have their own bathroom so it’s not like a big deal.

Chapter 3

Busted

I was awakened by my alarm at 5:30 and am now seated on the beach with Gramps and the Colonel. It’s a daily ritual, weather permitting because it rains 50 inches a year here annually, that we watch the sunrise and hope to see the Green Flash. So we meet at civil twilight when the sun is 6 degrees below the horizon or about 30 minutes before sunrise. According to Irish folklore, seeing it is supposed to bring good luck. I don’t know if that means for that instant, a day or lifetime. It’s also supposed to take place at sunset, not sunrise but Gramps insists it shouldn’t matter if the atmospheric conditions are right. I hope he proves to be correct before too much longer. The upside to his theory is that you don’t have to stare at the sun because the flash happens before it comes up.

No dogs on the beach all the signs read. Guess who doesn’t think he’s a dog but he’s smart enough to know the possibility exists that someone else might. The Beach Patrol is no problem, they all know Gramps and the Colonel, and nothing is ever said. I’ll bet the huge property tax Gramps pays is a factor. The Turtle Patrol is another matter.

The function of the Turtle Patrol is to locate and mark off nests so they are not disturbed. The mama turtles come up at night, dig a hole with their flippers 2 feet deep, lay their eggs, cover the eggs with sand and return to the sea. The patrol is an all-volunteer organization made up mostly of retired people and subject to a high rate of turnover. Every year there seems to be one old grouch, having been given a tiny bit of authority and an ATV, that tries to ban the Colonel from the beach.

The dog burrows himself down in the sand so that only his nose and eyes are visible so it’s hard to figure out how he can be spotted at all. He was, though.

While the three of us were busy with our own thoughts, a grouch caught us. A row ensued with curses and threats on both sides but the end result was I walked the Colonel up onto the lawn and we watched from there.

The Grouch walked back to his ATV that he stashed, the sneak, down the beach.

It was 3 pair of hard boiled eyeballs that stared him down as he rode by. The Colonel did a belly crawl to the beach that would make any Marine proud and watched his prey disappear. After that he could sense when the Grouch was coming, whether through sight, hearing or vibration in the sand, the dog would go sit on the lawn until he passed by.

Our routine is to swim some laps after sunrise then grab breakfast. The pool is 4 lanes wide and a little short of the standard 25 yards. I swam for the freshman team and will move up to Junior Varsity when I get back and start my sophomore year. I love swimming but I lack that competitive spirit, I’d rather cruise back and forth and daydream my way through practice. I day-dream a lot about this, I love swimming laps with my grandfather.

You’re getting pretty fast, Q.

You think?

Last year you were swimming 1 ½ laps to my 1, now it’s two to 1.

Jokingly I said, Maybe you slowed down.

Maybe I can’t beat you in the pool but I can at pool.

Sounds like a challenge to me.

We finished toweling off and headed inside. First rainy day, Sport.

This was the first I’d seen Lupe since I arrived so I said, Buenos Dias, Senora Sanchez.

Buenos Dias, Senor Aquinas. How beautiful it sounds coming from her. She seems to be two different people at the same time. When speaking to me she’s so sweet and motherly and of course, I eat it up.

There’s movement behind Lupe. A girl. Can that be Dolores? Wow, if it is did she ever change since last year. She’s gone and still no eye contact.

The whole time eating breakfast I thought of Dolores and how cute she looked but how weird she seemed. No twirling around though, so I guess that’s a plus.

This is when Gramps takes his coffee and paper outside and I play Frisbee on the lawn with the Colonel. Lately, though, the dog’s been disappearing for about a half an hour, then comes tearing around the corner of the house with what looks like a big grin on his face.

Today we’re fishing. Gramps likes to fish 2 hours before high tide and depending on how they’re biting we might stay till noon. The most common species are Redfish and Bluefish although we’ll catch Pompano and Flounder sometimes. Since not much imagination was used in the naming, I asked Gramps about this.

"You’re in the Deep South, Q, where we like to keep it simple. I do have an idea how some of the names might have come about. This was Seminole Indian country and a Brave probably caught a species no one had seen before and wishing to make points with the chief the conversation might have gone like this.

‘Say, Chief, look at this fish I caught. I thought you might like to name it.

‘Ugh.’

‘It’s got this reddish tint to it.’

‘Redfish.’

‘Perfect, Chief, I’ll go tell all the guys you named it Redfish.’

So the next day the same scenario except the fish has blue scales.

‘What do you think, Chief?’

‘Bluefish.’

‘Brilliant. How do you do it? While I’m here, Chief, I was wondering if I could date your daughter.’

‘Ugh.’

‘No, no, no....date not mate. I just want to date her a little bit.’

‘Ugh.’

‘Well, I’ll be going now and let’s forget about that little chat, OK?’

That’s my theory on fish naming and possibly an answer for the decline of the Seminole Nation."

We see mostly the same people every day on their walks and they’ll wave or call out to us. It might take a couple of days for vacationing Snowbirds to catch on to the friendliness of Daytona. We’re not going to mug them or hit them up for money just because we smile and say good morning.

I have my favorites and one is coming over. This man I can’t help watching because he appears to walk as if into a strong breeze, bent at the waist at such an angle that he might tumble over and I’ll miss it.

Mornin’, Tom, how’s the fishin’?

Chicken tonight, Clearance.

That’s what you say if the fish aren’t biting. He walks away wishing us better luck.

Gramps, I ask, Are you saying ‘Clearance or Clarence’?

Clearance. He grew like a weed one summer in high school so that for a while he was bumping his head on stuff. His real name is Clarence so we kids would holler ‘clearance, Clarence’ if his head looked in jeopardy. Later we’d just yell ‘clearance’.

What’s he all bent over from?

He took to stoopin’, as we say in these parts. I guess he had so much success in not whacking his noggin by bending, that he thought more was better and now he’s on the verge of a handstand.

I caught a nice size Redfish last year. They have to be between 18 and 27 inches otherwise you have to release them back into the water. I didn’t know a fish could be too big. Mine was probably around 20 inches but by the end of the day, it had grown larger as Gramps would tell every stopper by how hard it had fought me until I finally reeled it to shore. We had it for dinner with enough left over to make a 4-H for lunch the next day.

The tide has turned, it’s starting to recede so we move our pole holders and chairs to stay close to the surf. At low tide the sand packs so hard you can drive on it. We are on a no drive beach except for the Beach and Turtle Patrols, but a few blocks south any kind of vehicle is permitted and you see all kinds from bicycles to motor homes. It’s a tradition going back to when they had auto races on the sand and now it’s a big tourist attraction.

Chapter 4

Revenge

It took some detective work but we pieced the puzzle together. Alfredo came to us one morning, Gramps having his after breakfast coffee and newspaper and the Colonel and I playing Frisbee, with news that we had a bum sleeping behind one of the palmettos. This type of palm tree would afford great cover because it’s thick and bushy and grows close to the ground.

The three of us followed Alfredo around to the front of the house with the Colonel, who loves to lead a parade even if he doesn’t know where it’s going, hanging back a little. We were led to the northwest side of the yard close to the road and from behind the palmetto, Alfredo started throwing stuff out onto the lawn. First came a baseball cap not in very good shape, then a couple of bags seemingly holding unknown treasures, a tee shirt and two mineral water bottles.

As each item came flying from behind the palmetto, Gramps and I would check them out. Holding out the cap for me to inspect, Gramps said, This is strange, it looks brand new yet torn to shreds.

I looked in the bags and found a nicely made-up lunch in each. I said, I don’t think a homeless person would leave food lying around, too hard to come by.

I looked to Gramps for a response to see him holding spread out a new white shirt with large green lettering spelling out Turtle Patrol. We both looked at the Colonel at the same time just as he came charging at one of the water bottles.

He shook it like he does the stuffed squirrel and water came out which made him mad and the madder he got the wetter he got. He worked himself into such frenzy that Gramps finally had to calm him down.

We filled Alfredo in on the confrontation with the Grouch and the dog getting kicked off the beach. Our speculation is that the Colonel bird dogged him, paralleling him from the road as he went along the beach inspecting nests. Occupied with his chores, the Grouch’s ATV was burgled by an unknown perp who just happened to stash the goodies here.

It’s a Chamber of Commerce day. Warm, not a cloud in the sky with light variable winds. I’m watching three surfers out so far I can’t make out their features but they vary in size from small to medium to large. I don’t surf even though I’m from the small Southern California beach town of San Clemente. We live too far inland to walk to the beach, I’m too young to drive and besides swim practice takes up most of my free time.

The biggest of the trio seems to be the best surfer which surprises me, I just thought the smaller the more agile. Good size rollers are pounding in and while I’m thinking about how much fun that looks, Gramps says to me, Let’s go buy a surfboard.

I turn to answer my grandfather and there’s the Colonel looking at me too waiting for an answer. I better keep in mind they both know what I’m thinking especially with the thoughts I’ve been having lately about Dolores.

Really? I say. I would like to try it. How come the Colonel is still here, he’s usually up on the lawn sulking by now?

We haven’t seen that grouchy old jackanape lately. Spoke too soon, here comes an ATV now.

As the ATV comes closer we can see it’s a woman at the helm all tan, smiling and waving. She pulls up and walks over.

Hi, Tom, how are you?

Fine, Ruth, long time no see. This is my grandson, Aquinas.

During all of this I’m watching the dog sniff the ATV all around including the cargo area in the back and seemingly satisfied, with hind legs stretched taught and paws on the seatback, he arched his back and raised his head to the sky. This triumphant pose reminded me of an old Rin-Tin-Tin movie I saw on Turner Classic Movies. What a ham. He knows he vanquished the Grouch. I’m sure he’d beat his chest like Tarzan if he could.

Ruth told Gramps that one of the volunteers unexpectedly quit and that she was filling in until a replacement could be found. She patted the Colonel on the head and told him he was a good boy and drove away.

I’ve had teachers like that—some like Ruth and some like the Grouch. I don’t get it.

Chapter 5

Surf’s Up

The guy in the surf shop gave me some lessons on land that are supposed to work in the water; we’ll see. I’m waxing my board as instructed and practicing on the lawn so I don’t look like a complete idiot when I get in the surf.

Aquinas?

I didn’t need to turn around. The light touch on the shoulder and the slight Spanish accent with a sweet sound to my name, it had to be Dolores. I stood and for the first time ever caring, gazed at one of the cutest girls I’d ever seen. She had her black hair pulled into a ponytail framing a small light tan oval face with smiling amber eyes.

Would you like to go for a walk on the beach? she asked.

Yeah...sure, I stammered. She seemed to enjoy the fact that I was a jumble of nerves. I dropped the wax next to my board and follow her down the sandy path to the beach.

She was wearing a white tank top and tight yellow shorts and I began to wonder if she might be older than I thought. Dolores hit the beach running and once on the firm sand she was sprinting. It took me several yards to catch up and run in stride with her. It was no effort for me, probably due to all the swimming, but glancing over at her, she actually looked mad.

This was far from the walk on the beach I had expected so I slowed the pace to see if she would, too. She didn’t. I slowed to a walk then came to a stop and watched as the little yellow shorts disappeared from view. What the heck was that all about?

I missed the first couple of waves I tried to catch so I’m sitting here straddling the board and watching those three surfers that were out here before. It looks like a timing thing and I’ve been missing late. I start paddling in and feel the power of the wave lift me and propel the board straight and true so I hop up in a surfer’s stance for about one second and pitch over the side.

I catch up to the board, get back on and paddle back out. That was fun even if only for a second but I can see how you can get hooked on surfing. Those three guys have paddled closer and the little guy is waving his arm and shouting something. The waving motion looks more like shooing and I still can’t make out what he’s saying.

This wave looks like one of the best all day so I’ll take it and find out what he wants later. It rolls in but I’m too far in front and get wiped out hard. When I surface all three have me surrounded. They look all pissed off about something as I cling to my board and look from one to the other.

Get out of here, kid. This is our spot, says the smallest.

If it wasn’t for their demeanor, I would have thought they were kidding. What are you talkin’ about? I asked.

If you don’t want your ass kicked, get outa here. This is where we surf.

Looks like plenty of room to me. I flung my legs on the board and paddled to catch the next one which I hit just right and stayed up all of about three seconds before plunging beneath the surface.

My board hadn’t floated very far away and as I reached it something caught my eye; a surfboard aimed right at my head. I ducked under it just in time but the fin caught the hand holding my board. A searing pain ran up my arm and I feared the worst as I surfaced and squeeze the water from my eyes. No blood that I could see but a finger that I didn’t know could bend backwards at such a sharp angle.

I grabbed the board with my right hand and kicked toward shore dangling my left down beside me. Once up on the lawn, I dropped the board and immediately used my good hand to raise the injured at least shoulder high to lessen the throbbing. Gramps must have spotted me through the window and came out to see.

You’ve dislocated your finger, he said. I’d suspected that, having plenty of time to think it over, but confirmation did nothing for the pain. I’d reset it myself, he continued, but too chancy, we’ll go see the doctor right now.

Gramps speed-dialed his phone as we double-timed it to the jeep. Diane, this is Tom Hanrahan is Doc in? OK. No don’t bother him, just tell him I’ll be there in two minutes with my grandson. Yes, grandson.

Hmm, I thought and glanced down at the Colonel sitting between my legs, his back to the dashboard and his big brown eyes looking sorrowfully up at me. He looked more hurt than I felt. At that moment he rested his paw on my knee and what a jumble of emotions that brought on.

Gramps swung into a strip mall and pulled in front of a familiar building. He’s taking me to a veterinary clinic. His own flesh and blood in screaming pain, even his dog looks at him questioningly.

Why did you bring him here, Tom? the vet asked.

You’re the closest, let’s go, Doc, nothin’ to it.

Let me have a look then, the vet said and rubbed