The Gentlemen's Hour

66

Boone paddles out past the other surfers on the Gentlemen’s Hour, rips the leash off his ankle, and rolls off his board into the water, letting it cleanse the dirt and fatigue of a depressing all-night stakeout.

The ocean is timeless and therefore a great holder of memories and they wash over Boone with the cool water as he dives.

Sunny.

When Boone was helping her train to bust into the professional ranks, they used to do this—free dive as deep as they could go. She was like an arrow shot into the water, a long, sleek dart of energy and strength. They’d stay down until they felt their lungs about to burst, then stay down a little longer before rising quickly to the surface for that beautiful breath of air. Then they’d do it again, challenging each other, pushing each other, Sunny so stubborn and determined that she’d never give in before Boone.

After a few dives, they’d swim beside each other to find their boards where they’d drifted, then go on a long paddle parallel to the beach until their shoulders ached and their arm muscles burned with fatigue. Or they’d race—short, sharp dashes as if trying to beat each other into a wave, because he knew that’s what she’d need to break it on the tour: to get into that winning wave before the competition.

So he pushed her, never gave her a break or an edge for being a “girl.” Not that she needed one—Sunny was as strong and quick as any guy, stronger and quicker than most, her long frame and wide shoulders perfect for the water. She was ripped, in killer shape from a strict vegetarian diet supplemented with some fish. The diet, the yoga, the weight lifting, the brutal workouts she put herself through, the endless hours in the water—Sunny was a dedicated animal.

It was K2 who turned her onto yoga.

More memories as Boone touches the bottom, then arches up and shoots for the surface. He comes up and looks back at the shore.

All the boys laughed when Kelly brought that yoga shit to the beach. It didn’t bother K2, he just unrolled his mat on the sand and started doing those slow moves, furling, unfurling, and stretching his body into the funny, impossible shapes as he ignored the chuckles and witticisms around him.

He just smiled and did his routines.

Then tore it apart in the water.

Yeah, laugh all you want, boys—call him “guru,” “swami,” do your best George Harrison imitations—he’s tearing your

hearts

out in the surf. He gets any wave he wants, finds the perfect line, and

shreds

it with a grace and pure athleticism you can only dream about, and that old man can do it to you all day long.

Boone treads water, looks at the beach, remembers, and laughs.

Recalls the day when Sunny joined K2 in his yoga session. She strode up, laid her mat beside his, and started to copy his moves. He didn’t say anything, just smiled and kept going through his routine, and now the boys were really watching because this babe was putting herself through these contortions and it was, uhhh, compelling. Like, no one was

not

going to watch that, and then one of the dudes joined in to get next to Sunny, and then a few more, and it wasn’t long before K2 had a yoga class going on the beach.

Not for Boone—he did his workouts in the water—but Sunny was a devotee, totally aware that K2 was a father figure to her. Sunny’s own dad split when she was three, and she was totally open about the fact that she always wanted a dad.

“Basic psychology,” she told Boone during one of their training sessions. “I want to stay aware of it so I don’t do the stereotypical thing of trying to get the love I didn’t get from my father from my boyfriend.”

Which is a good thing, Boone thought, because he was her boyfriend at the time. So it was perfect when Sunny made her yoga hookup with K2.

“It’s almost better than having a real father,” she told Boone.

“How so?”

“Because I’m choosing my father figure,” she answered, “so I can look for all the qualities I want in a father instead of having to settle for whatever my real father was.”

“Got it.”

So did K2.

He was so cool about it. It didn’t freak him out, he never talked about it, never came close to doing that creepy “You can call me Daddy, daughter” thing. He just kept on being himself—kind, gentle, wise, and open.

All the qualities you’d want in a father.

Anyway, Sunny had her grandmother, Evelyn, and her father figure, K2, and her own package of DNA, and self-reliance, and a love for the ocean, so she never became the neurotic fucked-up SoCal broken family girl who careens around for love and ends up creating another generation of fucked-up SoCal broken family girls.

She became a great surfer instead.

A great lover and then a great friend.

He remembers that night on the beach. Low tide and deep fog, and him and her under the pier, making love with the water washing over them. Her long, sleek neck tasted like salt, her hands were firm on his back, her long, strong legs pushed him deeper into her.

After, they wrapped up in a blanket together and listened to the sound of the small waves slapping the pylons, and talked about their lives, what they wanted, what they didn’t, and they just talked bullshit and made each other laugh.

Boone misses her.

He swims over, gets on his board, sits up, and looks at the beach.

No less than the water itself, the beach is a place of memories.

Stand on it, you look out at the ocean and remember certain waves, awesome rides, bad wipeouts, hysterical conversations, great times. Sit off it and look back and you remember lying around talking, you remember volleyball games and cookouts, your memory makes it night instead of day and you remember bonfires, pulling on sweatshirts against the cold, guitars and ukuleles and quiet talks.

Now he remembers a talk he had with K2.

They were sitting a little away from the fire, listening to someone strum “Kuhio Bay” on the uke, when K2 said, “The secret of life . . .”

He paused and then added, “. . .

Grasshopper

”—because he liked to make fun of his status as a local guru—“is to do the right things, big or small, one after the other after the other.”

Boone had just returned to the surf and the beach after months of self-imposed isolation following the Rain Sweeny case. He’d quit the force, laid on Sunny’s sofa until she booted him out, then hid in his own place feeling sorry for himself.

Now he was back and it was only Sunny, his now ex, who knew that he wasn’t fully back. Sunny and, it seemed, K2.

Who just said that and left it there for Boone to pick up or not.

But they both knew what he meant:

You did the right thing.

Now, will you keep doing it?

Yeah, K, Boone thinks, watching the beach change from the night of his memory to the harsh sunlight of an August day, but what’s the right thing?

You know.

In your gut, you know.

Shit, K.

Shit indeed, Grasshopper.