“A little bit.” Tino’s grin widened. “But I respect it. You’re here and that means something. Especially to your daughter.” He winked. “And Rowan.”
He handed over a sanding block and a small board with a hairline crack near the nose. “First, we sand, even and slow. You feel the surface.”
Everett knelt in the sand, the sun hot on his neck, and began sanding. The rasping sound of paper over fiberglass filled the quiet. He worked the way he did everything—precise, focused, determined to do it right.
“Stop,” Tino said. “You’re attacking her.”
Everett looked up. “I’m ... what?”
“Gentle,” Tino said. “Board’s not your enemy. You listen and she’ll tell you when she’s ready.”
Everett tried again. His movements slowed. The rhythm shifted. The noise softened. The board began to hum under his hands instead of hiss.
Tino nodded, pleased. “Better. You teach your body to listen. That’s the first rule of surfing.”
Everett straightened, sand clinging to his knees. “I feel like you should write a book.”
“Too much work,” Tino said, picking up the board. “Okay, Suit. Time for the lesson.”
Everett groaned. “You, too?”
“She calls you that. I like it.” He cocked his head. “You surf before?”
Everett hesitated. “I’ve stood on a paddleboard once. On a lake.”
Tino winced. “Different animal. The lake is calm, but the ocean got attitude. We’ll start easy.” He patted the board. “Lie down.”
Everett froze. “On the sand?”
“On the board,” Tino corrected. “Pretend the sand is the ocean. We won’t kill you yet.”
Reluctantly, Everett knelt, then stretched out on the board, trying to ignore the way his knees and elbows protested.
Tino tapped his shoulder blade. “Back foot here. Hands under chest. Look at the horizon, not your feet. If you look down, you fall.”
Everett obeyed, focusing on a distant sailboat.
“Okay, now pop up.”
He knew the term and had watched Kelsey do it, but now his brain blanked. “Pop up?”
“Like this.” Tino demonstrated—a smooth, graceful transition from prone to standing, balanced as if he’d been born there. God, the guy was twenty years older than him and showing him up. “Your turn.”
Everett braced his arms and pushed up awkwardly. His knees caught. His back foot dragged. He toppled sideways into the sand.
Tino nodded solemnly. “Beautiful fall. Very artistic.”
Everett groaned and brushed grit off his arm. “How many times do I have to do that?”
“Until you stop looking like you’re doing yoga wrong.”
He laughed. “So never.”
They tried again. And again. Each attempt a little smoother. By the sixth pop-up, Everett landed on both feet—shaky but upright.
Tino crossed his arms. “See? Not terrible.”
“I’ll have that engraved,” Everett said dryly. Tino instructed him to repeat the same moves until it became more natural. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. He could do this.
