Page 1 of Little Saint Nautilus

The sun was just starting to rise. A kiss of light breaking through the darkness with a beautiful display of purples and oranges. It was my favorite time of day.

Quiet, cool, serene.

The only people here were the die-hards like me. No families or influencers or crowds. Surfers and scuba groups shared the beach with me. Wetsuits were the swimwear of choice at that hour, especially in December. But nothing beat the salty, cold bite of the ocean first thing in the morning; it was the best caffeine you could ask for.

I pulled the cord, tugging the zipper up my back, and sealing me into the neoprene. From the back of my truck, I unloaded the kayak and attached cart. The wheels allowed me to haul my kayak without needing help. Though the awkward motion of pulling it through the sand always made my knee twinge, it was my best option.

A hint of jealousy scratched beneath the surface when I saw the other surfers run into the water with their boards. It was so easy for them. Simply attach the safety strap to their ankles and they were set. Not so for me, not anymore.

There was no running into the waves with my kayak, as it was far too bulky for that. Though, I couldn't run much if I wanted to.

After getting the kayak as close to the water as possible, I unhooked it from the cart. I put on my life vest, because, yes, I wore one now. Part of it was to appease my grandpa after the accident, but it was for me, too. Along with the life vest was the daily check-in with Gramps to let him know when I would be on the water and where, and when I was done.

As much as I loved the ocean and couldn't go a day without breathing the briny air, my injury had shaken me. Nothing like a near-death experience to fracture a cocky twenty-two-year-old's sense of immortality. That wasn't the only thing that had fractured that day. My knee had taken the brunt of the impact, shattering it, and leaving me with a series of surgeries to get it to the functionality I now had.

Eight years later, and I still walked with a limp, one that worsened with the weather changes or if I pushed myself too hard, but I walked. Even that was a miracle. Of course, I’d been lucky it had only been my knee, and that Ionlyhad a limp. It wasn't an exaggeration to say I might not be here today.

With the paddle sitting on the sit-on-top ocean kayak, I walked it into the water, holding it as I waded past the shallows. It wasn’t as easy to swim out as it was on a board, but I pressed forward, gripping the sides as I passed through the breaking waves. Once I was waist deep, I hauled myself into the flat, stable boat. From here, I paddled out, pushing through the water and the smaller waves, loving the way it worked my arms and my chest as I glided over the water.

This…this almost felt the same. Though I wasn't simply using my hands to paddle, I liked knowing it was my own power that moved me. A swell was forming, and I lined myself up. Instincts guided me. They came from a lifetime of being on the water, learning to read the waves, to know when to catch one and when to let one go.Usually.

Turning to face the shore, I began paddling as the wave built behind me and gave just enough of a push to ride the crest. I held the paddle on my lap to let it carry me toward the shore in the same rush I used to get on a board.

The hardest part about my recovery from my injury was knowing I would no longer be able to pop up and stand on a board. I just couldn’t trust that my knee wouldn’t give out. I bodysurfed for a time, but beinginthe water wasn’t the same as being on top of it. My grandfather started taking me out kayaking in the bay as a way to build up my strength and get me out of my head, and I loved it. But thebay wasn’t the beach. The smells, the sounds, but mostly the high of riding a wave, and submitting to the ocean’s power.

So I brought my kayak to the beach. I was really self-conscious about it the first few times, especially trying it out in clear view of other surfers. But once I got the hang of it, I felt the rush that used to be such a big part of my life. The rush that made me forget my knee or the fact that I never made it toWorlds. In those seconds, I flew and everything else drifted away.

It helped, too, that some of the others had come over and cheered me on, making me feel like I was still a part of the community. Now, I’d done it every day for the past four years.

Repeating the motion, I paddled out once more, waiting for another swell. When it came, and I lifted my paddle from the water, I stared into the wave, as I often did. It was a habit, looking, in hopes of seeing a face beneath the surface. Creepy, I know. But there was a face that lived in my dreams, one I was almost certain I’d seen on the day of my accident.

Through all the flashbacks and nightmares I had of my crash—the crack, the pain, the blood, the terror, getting pummeled by the waves, and losing all sense of direction—he was there. Everyone told me I’d imagined it because when they rescued me from the rock I'd been slumped on, I’d been alone. When Ithought of that day, so much was unclear. It happened so quickly, and it was all jumbled together, but the face that appeared before me and the brown eyes that stared into mine beneath the surface were still crystal clear in my mind.

It wasn’t only the high of surfing that I chased regularly, but the beautiful man’s face in the water.

Shaking my head to clear it, I brought my focus back to the present, enjoying the thrill and the workout that kayak-surfing provided. After an hour, I was attaching the wheeled cart and dragging the kayak back up the sandy shore. I loaded it onto my truck before showering in the public shower stalls and got dressed. I returned to the boardwalk, where my shop was located.

After my dreams of being a professional surfer had been crushed, I had to face the reality of working. My soul longed for the beach, though. It had its hooks deep in me, and I couldn’t imagine having to work inside. I’d been lucky when one of the shop owners on the boardwalk I talked to regularly told me he was retiring and looking for someone to take over. So I did.

It was perfect. I got to spend my days at the beach I loved, surrounded by the soothing sounds and smells that calmed the stirring I felt within, and it paid the bills. Maybe it wasn’t the same dream I’d had as a teen, but it was as good as I could hope for, and it allowed me time to hit the waves each morning before I opened.

My shop was simple, with pre-packaged snacks and drinks, some California and beach-themed souvenirs, and a few racks of clothing. It always amazed me the number of people who somehow lost their clothes at the beach or didn’t anticipate the cooler evenings and needed a sweater, scarf, or jacket.

Seeing as how it was winter, I was wearing my traditional hoodie, jeans, and flip-flops. Another perk of the location—and being my own boss—was getting to wear sandals year-round. In the summer, I would even wear swim shorts and a tee shirt. The thought of going corporate and having to wear shoes and a tie made me want to shrivel up and die.

When it was slow, I would walk across the sidewalk, kick my sandals off, and dig my toes in the sand—couldn’t do that in an office. It was easy enough to keep an eye on the shop and it always grounded me. When a customer walked or rolled up on skates, I could quickly slip my flip-flops back on and walk twenty feet back to the shop.

It wasn’t like I was cooking anything or had any open food, and sand was bound to happen, anyway. It was all part of the natural aesthetic of a shop on the boardwalk. Nothing beat the view I had, getting to watch the water any time I wanted to. And the people-watching didn’t hurt either.

Besides the die-hards, there weren’t a lot of folks walking around in thongs or tiny shorts at the moment. We had alot more skates and bikes on the boardwalk than towels on the sand this time of year, but it offered plenty of eye candy all the same.

Skateboarders in beanies caught my attention as much as men in tight pants on roller skates. And bike shorts. God bless bike shorts. Especially when they were worn by men who walked into my shop looking for refreshments. There was no hiding their assets in the skin-tight creations, and I was a fan. Never met a wetsuit I didn’t like either.

Looking was always simply that, though. Looking. I was thirty, in decent shape, maybe a little pooch in the belly, but through the years of physical therapy and my daily ocean workout, I was fairly fit. My skin was tanned, and I had sun-bleached medium-length hair. I wore a trimmed beard, which was a slightly darker shade of blond than my hair.

I’d had a fair share of guys show interest, more so from the ones who knew my name from my competition days. There had even been a hookup or two in the unisex bathroom stalls at the beach, but nothing more serious. I could admit that my confidence had taken a hit, and my knee… well, it was an issue. Noncommittal handies and blow jobs were easier than being vulnerable and having to explain I couldn’t do certain positions. Hooking up might have scratched an itch, but there was a hollowness to it. Something was missing. Every time I tried to pin down what it was, I felt a tug to the sea.

Thinking about it now, I let my gaze drift to the water, watching. A longing ache pulled at my heart, one that I didn’t understand. It wasn’t simply the need to be on the water, it went deeper. Deep beneath the surface, it was as if my heart were an anchor, sinking to the sea floor and holding me in place.

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