I had no history of being underwater.
I typed back:
Resting near water.
That was not technically a lie.
It was a truth wearing sunscreen.
Reef Rascal looked smaller up close than it had from the café. A low white building sat between two palms, with colorful fins hanging beneath the awning and a rack of wetsuits swaying in the breeze like a row of very judgmental seals.
A second chalkboard stood by the entrance.
TODAY’S CONDITIONS:
CALM WATER
GOOD VISIBILITY
TURTLE MAYOR POSSIBLY IN OFFICE
Someone had drawn a turtle wearing a tie.
Inside, the shop smelled of neoprene, salt, sunscreen, and coffee strong enough to restart a dead boat engine.
A golden retriever slept beneath the counter with the exhausted confidence of an employee who had never once paid rent.
His red bandanna read:
CAPTAIN PANCAKE — ASSISTANT MANAGER
He opened one eye when I entered, decided I was not carrying food, and went back to sleep.
Behind the counter, a man in his sixties was repairing a fin strap. He had gray hair, deeply tanned arms, and the kind of expression that suggested he had seen every possible form of tourist stupidity and ranked most of it below average.
“Hank?” I asked.
He looked up.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Who’s asking.”
“Annie. I booked a private beginner lesson.”
“Then yes.”
That seemed to conclude the introduction.
He pointed toward the clipboard in my hand.
“You sign everything?”
“I think so.”
“You think you have allergies?”
