“Four feet of water is still enough to drown in! I’ve seen the documentaries!”
A small school of yellow cuties swims past us, unbothered by my crisis of aquatic confidence. They’re followed by what appears to be a parrotfish that’s bigger than my head and considerably more comfortable with the whole breathing-underwater situation.
“Look,” Koa says, pointing at the fish. “You’re missing all of this because you’re afraid of a plastic tube.”
“I’m missing all of this because I have a healthy respect for the laws of physics and human respiratory systems.”
He tries a different approach, standing behind me and placing his hands on my waist to steady me. This creates an entirely different problem, because now I’m focused on the way his touch sends electricity through the warm water and how his chest feels against my back when he leans in to adjust the snorkel.
“Just put your face in for one Mississippi,” he says, his breath warm against my ear. “I’ve got you.”
He would pick a state with the most letters in its name.
His hands settle on my waist with a gentle confidence that makes my knees forget their primary function, which is problematic when you’re standing in three feet of water wearing flippers. He guides me slowly toward the surface, and I’m suddenly very aware that his chest is pressed against my back and his arms are creating a human safety net that feels significantly more dangerous than drowning. He isholdingme. This is not a drill. Would it be too much to ask to have this moment stretch out forever?
“Easy,” he murmurs, and the vibration of his voice travels through the water and directly into parts of my anatomy that have no business responding to snorkeling instruction. “I’m not going anywhere.”
This is both reassuring and terrifying, because the way his hands span my waist assures he could probably hold me up indefinitely, which creates all sorts of inappropriate thoughts about endurance and stamina that have absolutely nothing to do with aquatic sports.
“Ready?” he asks, and I nod because speech has become impossible when you’re essentially being embraced by a wet,shirtless detective who holds the scent of the ocean and looks like he was personally designed to make women forget basic safety protocols.
He helps lower me toward the water, his grip steady and sure, and I realize that drowning in four feet of water while being held by the hottest man in the Pacific is probably not the worst way to go, though it would make for a very embarrassing obituary.
Against all survival instincts, I lower my face into the ocean and immediately see a world that makes every nature documentary look understated. Coral formations in impossible colors, fish that look like they were painted by someone with a serious addiction to neon, and water so clear it doesn’t seem real.
I hit the surface with a triumphant gasp. “I did it! I survived! I’m practically Jacques Cousteau!”
He tips his head. “You held your breath the entire time.”
“Of course, I held my breath! I’m not insane!”
“The point is to breathe through the snorkel.”
“The point is not to die while looking at pretty fish!”
A green sea turtle, the size of a microwave, chooses this moment to glide past us with a casual grace as if showing off the fact he’s mastered this whole underwater breathing thing. It pauses to look at me with ancient, patient eyes that clearly suggest I’m overthinking the entire process.
“Even the turtle thinks you should try breathing through the snorkel,” Koa says.
“The turtle doesn’t have to worry about drowning in paradise because it trusted a plastic tube and the power of denial.”
Eventually, through a combination of patience, gentle encouragement, and the type of physical support that makes me forget why I was scared in the first place, I manage a few successful attempts at actual snorkel breathing. The underwaterworld that opens up is like stepping into an aquarium designed with unlimited imagination and a serious addiction to tropical colors.
“Come on,” Koa says, taking my hand with a casual intimacy as he tries to guide me through this watery version of paradise. “I want to show you something.”
His fingers intertwine with mine as he floats me through the shallow water, pointing out treasures I never would have noticed on my own. A school of bright yellow fish that move like liquid sunshine. Purple sea urchins tucked into coral crevices. A moray eel that looks significantly less terrifying when viewed from a safe distance through crystal-clear water.
“Look,” he mumbles from his snorkel, stopping and pointing to a coral formation that looks like an underwater castle. Tiny fish dart in and out of the coral towers—electric blue ones, striped ones that look like underwater zebras, and something that resembles a living jewel with fins.
For the first time since arriving in Hawaii, there’s not a rooster or cat in sight. Just endless fish, warm water, and one heck of a catch swimming beside me, who happens to know exactly where to find the best underwater real estate on the island.
“This is incredible,” I say, surfacing for a moment and treading water next to him once I realize I can no longer touch the bottom. “I had no idea this was all here.” I pant as the sun kisses my face, and the balmy breeze warms my skin.
“Most people don’t take the time to really look,” he says, pulling off his mask as the water dripping from his hair catches the late afternoon sun. “They’re too busy getting to the next thing on their itinerary.”
Like a murder investigation, I think, but don’t dare say out loud. Something tells me we’ll get to that part soon enough.
His hand finds mine again under the water, and, suddenly snorkeling lessons have become something entirely different—something that feels suspiciously like the sort of perfect first date I thought only existed in romance novels. Okay, so it’s technically not a date, and if it was, it may not even be our first, but it’s something.
