Page 62 of The Beach Shack Summer
“Had to. You either learn fast there or get destroyed.” She shrugged. “I’m decent now. Not embarrassing myself anymore.”
“That’s great! But California waves are different. Pacific has its own rhythm - more mellow, but the reefs here shape things differently.” Tyler changed lenses, already planning. “Want me to show you how our breaks work? Could help you adapt.”
“Yeah, okay.” A small smile played at her lips. “Could be fun to surf somewhere with less than two hundred people trying to kill me.”
“Definitely less crowded. Though the locals might notice a new face.” Tyler paused, remembering. “Last time I tried to teach you at Bondi, you were maybe four? You kept trying to stand up backwards. We both ended up frustrated. You told me the ocean was stupid and you were never going in again.”
“Sounds like me.”
“You were very decisive. Even then.” Tyler smiled at the memory. “But you kept at it anyway. That’s kind of your thing.”
“My thing?”
“Yeah. You decided to learn to drive, memorized the whole manual in three days. Decided to work at the Shack, mastered Joey’s napkin system. When you want something, you make it happen.”
“Oh.” She turned back to the ocean, still taking pictures with her phone.
“I’ll ask Luke to help show you the local breaks. He knows every reef from here to San Clemente. We’ll get Meg out too - been years since she’s been on a board.”
“Sure. Why not?”
Tyler laughed. “I’ll ask Luke. He’s the actual professional. Taught Meg back in the day. And we’ll see if Meg wants to join—been years since she’s been on a board.”
They stayed until the full sun was up and the beach started filling with morning joggers and dog walkers. Tyler packed up his equipment while Stella took a few last phone shots.
“Camera Cave opens at eight,” Tyler said, checking the time. “Want to see about film?”
“Can we get breakfast first? I’m starving.”
“Café’s right next door. Best breakfast burritos in Laguna.”
They drove back up PCH, Stella reviewing her phone photos while Tyler navigated the increasing traffic.
“These are actually pretty good,” she said, sounding surprised.
“Can I see?”
She held up her phone at a red light. The composition was impressive—she’d caught a surfer mid-turn with the sun creating a perfect silhouette.
“That’s really good, Stella. Like, really good.”
“It’s just a phone picture.”
“It’s not about the equipment. It’s about seeing the moment.” The light changed. “You’ve got it.”
“Got what?”
“The eye. Same thing artists have. Seeing what makes a good shot.”
“Oh.” She looked pleased. “Thanks.”
Camera Cave was a cramped shop that smelled like old plastic and chemistry. The owner, an aging hippie named Gary, lit up when he saw the Polaroid.
“Sun 660! Classic. Still making film for these beauties.” He disappeared into the back, returning with several boxes. “Polaroid Originals. Not cheap, but they work.”
“How much?” Stella asked.
“Twenty-eight for eight shots.”
