Then there’s our instructor, Maren. From her accent when she introduced herself, she’s Swedish or Norwegian, maybe.
She looks like what would happen if a Viking goddess decided to become a surf instructor. She’s tall and blonde, with a toned body that suggests she spends her life doing exciting outdoor activities.
Her wetsuit’s rolled down to her waist, revealing a sports bikini top and an alarming number of toned muscles.
I suck in my stomach automatically, though the wetsuit makes it pointless.
“Georgie, you’re new to surfing, right?” Her bright blue eyes land on me.
I nod. “Complete beginner.”
“She’s a bit nervous,” Fee adds helpfully, nudging me.
Maren beams, reaching up to tighten her ponytail. Her perky boobs bounce in a way I pretend not to notice. “Totally normal. We’ll take it slow and build your confidence. You’ll be standing on a board in no time.”
I smile back, caught between shyness and being completely dazzled.
Something about her feels familiar, nagging at the edges of my memory. Portree, maybe? My brain keeps circling but can’t land.
She covers safety, currents, the calm spots versus the dangerous ones. “We’ll practice all of it on dry land before we even think about water. Sound good?”
A chorus of confident “yep!”s goes around the group. I manage a squeaky “uh-huh.”
I’m happy to stay on sand forever, thanks.
Maren hands out the boards—giant foam slabs. Mine’s pastel blue with suspicious teeth marks gouged into one edge.
“Don’t worry,” she says, catching my stare. “Seals. They get nosy. Sometimes they take a nibble.”
Reassuring in theory. Less so when you remember we’re in Scotland, not SeaWorld.
She demonstrates the pop-up—lying flat, then somehow magically flowing up into a perfect surf stance. It takes maybe half a second and looks like something out of a Nike ad.
“Your turn! Lie down, hands by your chest... and pop!”
I lie down. I attempt to pop. I face-plant into my board instead.
“Brilliant effort, Georgie!” Maren calls out. Translation: You’re shit, but I’m too polite to say so.
It’s very British of her, considering she’s Scandinavian.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m sweating through the rubber, arms trembling, and we haven’t evenlookedat the ocean yet.
This is humiliating. Everyone else has mastered the basic pop-up. I’m still eating foam.
Just when I think it can’t get any worse, a familiar green Land Rover pulls up beside the beach.
My stomach plummets.
Through the windshield, I watch him yank his T-shirt over his head in one smooth, impatient move.
No, no, no. Please, not today. Not when I look like a rubber sausage.
He climbs out, and my mouth goes dry.
His wetsuit’s rolled down to his waist, hanging low enough that I can see those lines that disappear beneath the neoprene. All that skin I had my hands on just days ago.
The wetsuit clings to his thighs in ways that make me remember exactly how solid he felt pressed against me.
