The ribbing from the lads was savage. My ego took a blow, that’s for sure. Turtle girl’s shell is tougher than I thought. It’s not even about winning the bet, it’s about my pride.
Clawing my way out of the tangled duvet, I stumble towards the bathroom, holding onto the easel as I pass. If it wasn’t for Chad and his big mouth, I’m sure I could’ve got the turtle girl to warm to me, at least. But after his stunt, she wants nothing to do with me.
Who can blame her? I can’t stand that tosser myself. I only hang out with him because his dad’s on the planning council and my father would have my balls for breakfast if I ruined his precious plans.
After cleaning my teeth, I open the window. Seagulls squawk in the marina and I inhale the salty sea air. The beach rental at Hayes Resort was a much better option than moving into my dad’s home with his new flavour of the month, who isn’t much older than me. While nice enough, I needed my own space.
Whenever my father sees me with a brush in my hand, I get a lecture on how art isn’t a productive use of my time. I may not make any money from my paintings, but it’s the only time I feel like myself.
My need to paint is as crucial to me as my need for air. I need oxygen for my body but art for my spirit. Something my father never understood.
While dressing, the leaflet falls from my shorts pocket, reminding me of the fundraiser. I search up the web address for more details and smile when a familiar face fills the screen. Turtle girl and a… turtle. Memories of her rejection haunt me, but I never shy away from challenges. It only makes me want her more.
With my sketchbook open at the ready, I outline her face and the turtle with my graphite pencil. Long wavy sun-kissed strawberry blonde hair frames dimpled cheeks, cherry lips, and eyes full of all the shades of green, like an English country landscape as if calling me home.
Music travels through the open window. The fundraiser must be starting. I pull on a white linen shirt, fill my beige cargo shorts with pencils and tuck my sketchbook under my arm as I head out of the rental.
Walking down the boardwalk of the marina, I admire Dad’s boat. Now my boat, gently bobbing in the water. Dad and I share a passion for sailing. Our only common ground.
As soon as the wind picks up, I’ll be taking her out. The music gets louder as I reach the edge of the resort. Agirl rock band play on the resort’s bandstand, the crowd spilling out onto the beach.
The smell of fresh crepes has me picking up my pace towards the Taste of Magnolia food truck. Seeing Cora’s truck around town is always a welcome sign.
“Finn, how was last night’s party?” Aspen asks. “I’m sorry I had to work.”
“You didn’t miss much. I wouldn’t exactly call it a party.” I pull my wallet from my back pocket. “Can I get a crepe and a black coffee, please? Make it a strong one.”
“That bad, huh?” She folds my crepe and hands it to me along with the card machine.
I shrug. “It was okay.” I reach up and take the coffee cup. “Thanks for the food.”
“Anytime. Enjoy the fundraiser.”
I lift the cup in salute as I weave through the crowd, munching on the lemon crepe. The female vocalist shouts into the mic, making me jump. An angry group of women tear up the stage, but I’m into it and bob my head along to their beat.
Walking farther down the beach, I find a less crowded spot and settle down near the cordoned off nesting area. As I pull out my sketchbook, I see her. The woman who hates me. The woman who said she wouldn’t kiss me if I paid her. The woman I can’t seem to get out of my head.
Luckily she doesn’t spot me, or I’m sure she’d march over here saying I was blocking a turtle runway or something. Instead, I watch her busy herself, directing people on the beach and carrying signs and fold-up tables. I should ask if she wants a hand, but I’m rather enjoying the show. Sipping my coffee, I admire the woman before me.
The woman on stage passionately discusses the cause and the purpose for the fundraiser. “The facts are simpleand I’d like to introduce you to Shelly Myrtle, our mother turtle for the conservation of Magnolia Point.”
Shelly steps up on stage, clutching a piece of paper. I’m too far away to see her facial features, but she walks with confidence in her step, the crowd cheering her on.
“First, I’d like to thank you all for being here today. This fundraiser is so important for our efforts. We have allowed our town to be fragmented and sold off to accommodate the construction of hotels and supermarkets by big corporations. I say enough is enough.”
The singer cheers and whoops into the mic, rousing the crowd.
“I have some facts I’d like to read out. Despite being shocking, we must acknowledge the state of our world.” Shelly reads from a small piece of paper. “100,000 animals die annually from plastic entanglement. Enough is enough.”
The crowd repeats her words. “Enough is enough.”
“There are over five trillion pieces of plastic trash in our oceans. For context, there are eight billion people on Earth. Enough is enough.” Shelly looks out at the chanting crowd before continuing. “Off California’s coast lies an ocean garbage patch, twice the size of Texas. Enough is enough.”
More people gather around me, joining in with the chant.
“Above all, single-use plastic is the most common type of plastic found in the oceans. This includes items like straws, takeaway cups, and plastic cutlery. Enough is enough.” Her fist pumps the air to get her point across and the crowd erupts in echoing her words.
I lift my coffee cup to check it’s biodegradable, or recyclable at least.
