The Uneventful Life of Harvey Mackler

c h a p t e r | f i f t e e n

     IT TAKES ABOUT a week, but things between me and Finn slowly start to go back to normal.

The lingering looks are less frequent, as are the awkward gaps in our exchanges filled with nothing but silence. Soon, it becomes a little more bearable to be alone with him for over an hour without the feeling of guilt gnawing at me the entire length of our surfing practices.

Today, after practicing a couple tricks, we decide to focus on Finn's approach to transitioning from a lying to standing position on his board.

"Why do you even like surfing anyway?" I ask Finn when he returns to the shore.

As 'friends' now, I am supposed to sprinkle questions like these in between our general conversations about surfing. Finn said it made him feel like I was doing this more because I wanted to and less because I was getting paid.

Finn rolls his eyes the moment he makes eye contact with me. "I know you're only saying that out of some sort of obligation, but I know a part of you is probably genuinely curious, so I'm going to answer you honestly."

He lays his board on the sand, leaving enough space so he is able to sit down on the beach right next to me.

Fixing his gaze on the ocean, Finn begins to explain. "Surfing is actually quite popular in Cornwall. Though I never really lived in an area where anyone I knew did it. I'm actually a swimmer."

"I could tell."

Finn glances at me. "How so?"

I falter.

During our surfing lessons, Finn usually dresses more modestly — either wearing a spring wetsuit, or a pair of swim shorts with a vest or a rash guard. I know from the odd occasion I've caught sight of Finn messing around with the guys at the beach, he doesn't really bother as much with shirts when I'm not around. How creepy would it be to casually mention that Finn's toned upper half is the perfect example of 'swimmer's bod'?

"Your strokes," I say instead, "when you swim. It's obvious. They're very... defined."

"Huh."

Finn leans back on his arms, mulling over my statement.

"Well, anyway. I remember once a couple years back, our swim team went to this camp at the coast. We got to try lots of different activities and other water sports that week — one of them was surfing. It sounds a bit cheesy, but... I guess you could say I fell in love with it that same day." Finn turns his head to me. "Ever since then, I've been trying to teach myself a little here and there, whenever I can."

I pull my feet up, wrapping my arms around my lower calves and resting my chin on my knees. "It almost sounds cool when you put it that way."

"Why did you start surfing?" Finn inquires. "Or, I suppose I should ask, why did you like surfing? I'm guessing you must have liked it to be able to compete."

Why did I like surfing?

It is a pretty basic question, yet I find myself deliberating over an answer for several minutes.

"I guess I was just good at it," I finally reply. "And so I kept doing it."

"It doesn't sound quite as romantic when you say it," Finn replies. "Aren't surfers supposed to be really passionate about surfing?"

"I'm passionate about winning?" I propose.

Finn shakes his head. "You really are just bloody competitive."