Page 72 of Chasing Sunsets

“I can’t guarantee that it’s fit for use, but if anyone can fix it, I’m sure you can,” she says.

I race outside and rush to the back of the office. Using the key, I unlock the padlock and pull open the warped wooden door of the storage shed. The scent of salt, damp wood, and something vaguely rotten fills my nostrils. The hinges groanin protest, as if I disturbed something that was meant to stay forgotten. Sunlight streams through the slats, illuminating the dust swirling in the air. I step inside, my sandals crunching over dried leaves and debris, and scan the jumble of discarded beach gear, old folding chairs, and rusted fishing poles.

That’s when I see it.

Propped against the far wall, half buried beneath a pile of broken boogie boards and a tangle of fishing nets, is a paddleboard. It’s long, wooden, and covered in years of grime and neglect. The once-smooth surface is chipped and peeling, the paint faded to a dull ghost of whatever color it used to be. A spider scurries away as I pull it free, dragging it into the sunlight.

“Oh, wow.” I run my hand over the rough surface, my fingertips catching on splinters.

It’s heavy, solid beneath the decay. This thing has history.

“You sure you wanna mess with that old thing?”

I glance up to see Pete standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his sun-weathered chest. His gray beard twitches as he smirks.

“Where’d it come from?” I ask, brushing off a layer of dust.

“Some camper left it behind years ago,” he says with a shrug. “Figured someone would claim it, but no one ever did. It’s been sitting in there ever since.”

I tilt my head, picturing the board in its former glory. “Can I have it?”

Pete chuckles. “If you really want it, it’s yours. But I wouldn’t count on it floating.”

I grin, my heart racing with excitement. I love a good project. “Guess I’ll find out.”

Back at my RV, I lay the board across a couple of stacked cinder blocks and take stock of what I’m working with. The wood is solid but battered—there are deep cracks, patches of rot, and layers of old wax caked onto the surface. I grab my phone and start researching paddleboard restoration. Most people wouldn’t bother with something this far gone, but I’ve always believed in second chances, so I roll up my sleeves and get to work.

I start by talking Pete into giving me a ride to the Sandcastle Cove Hardware Store, where I purchase some supplies for the project.

When we return, he lends me his toolbox, and I start scraping off the old wax, using a putty knife and a heat gun to soften the layers. It’s slow, tedious work, but there’s something satisfying about revealing the wood beneath. Once I get it stripped down, I sand the entire surface, smoothing out rough patches and clearing away splinters. My hands ache by the time I’m done, but the board already looks better, like it’s waking up and coming back to life.

Next, I tackle the cracks and water damage. I fill in the worst of the gaps with wood filler, then let it dry before sanding it down again. It’s not perfect, but it’s stronger. I replace a few rusted screws and reinforce the edges, and finally, after hours and hours of labor, I seal the whole thing with a fresh coat of marine-grade varnish.

By the time I’m done, the board gleams in the sunlight, its wood grain rich and golden beneath the glossy finish. It’s not brand-new, but it’s beautiful in a way only something restored can be.

I run my hand over the surface and smile. Now, all I need is a paddle, and I’m sure I can find one at the farmers market, so I hop on the bike and pedal the ten blocks to Veterans Park.

The farmers market is in full swing when I arrive. Vendors call out their daily specials, and a musician plays an acoustic guitar near the picnic tables.

I skipped renting a table this week, as I’d sold out of paintings and crafts last week and I need to get to work and rebuild my inventory.

Parking the bike in a spot close to the golf carts, I walk through the stalls, admiring handmade jewelry, woven baskets, and crates of ripe peaches. Then, near the back, I spot a row of handcrafted paddles leaning against a wooden rack, each one carved and painted in intricate designs. The vendor—a tanned woman with silver-streaked hair and deep smile lines—greets me.

“Looking for a paddle?” she asks.

I nod and step closer. “I just restored an old board. I figure I’ll need a paddle if I intend to try it out and see if it floats.”

She grins. “Then, you need something special.”

She picks up a paddle with a smooth, curved blade, its handle wrapped in leather. The wood is painted with a swirling sunset ocean scene, where deep blues fade into soft reds and oranges. It feels sturdy yet light, perfectly balanced as I test its weight in my hands.

“Oh, I like this one,” I say.

She nods like she already knew I’d pick that one. “Good choice. That paddle’s meant for second chances.”

I raise an eyebrow, and she just winks.

I pay for the paddle and leave the market with a thrill of anticipation buzzing through me.

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