Tides and Teeth

Tides and teeth.

It's the Summer of 1966. Ed, a hardware store worker from Reseda, meets Maggie, a local surfer and diner waitress, at Huntington Beach. Their connection deepens as they surf together, culminating in a passionate encounter on the beach and in the back of a woodie, amidst the backdrop of the Vietnam War draft.

Inspired by the 1963 Beach Boys song 'Surfer Girl'

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The radio crackles through the dash speaker, some station out of Long Beach fading in and out between the static. I reach for the knob and twist it, but the signal's gone.

Story of my life in some ways.

Doesn't matter. The window's down, and the Pacific does its own broadcast waves hitting the jetty, that hollow percussion like somebody drumming the inside of a wooden box.

I hang a left off Pacific Coast Highway and roll into the lot at Huntington Beach, the woodie's tires crunching over sand and cracked asphalt. The 1947 Ford Super Deluxe settles to a stop, engine ticking as it cools.

I sit there a second. The dash clock says a quarter past four.

August light pours through the windshield, warm, thick and amber, and I push my Polaroid sunglasses up my nose.

The lot's half-empty. A couple of wood-panelled wagons like mine, a Volkswagen bus with a surfboard lashed to the roof, a sedan with a family piling out, kids already screaming.

The beach stretches wide and bright, and the pier juts out into the Pacific like a long weathered finger pointing at Japan.

I get out. The sand's hot through my sandals, that dry-grain burn, and I open the tailgate to grab the longboard I rented from the shack in Seal Beach this morning.

Forty-five cents for the day. The board's a beater nose cracked, fiberglass yellowing, wax buildup like candle drippings along the rails.

But it floats, and I can stand up on it most of the time. I repeat most of the time.

My cutoffs are damp at the thighs from sitting on the board in the water earlier, and my white t-shirt's got that sweat-dark patch across the chest.

I scratch at the sand stuck to my knees. Should've brushed off better after that last wipeout. The wave caught me sideways and threw me, and I ate sand in two feet of water like a complete kook.

But then that describes my life in general, I try to surf, I try to get laid. All with the same effect, I luck out with both. I briefly think ' what am I doing here?' and then I exhale in a long slow sigh.

I tuck the board under my arm and walk toward the water.

The sand here is coarse, shell-flecked, not that soft powder stuff you find down in San Diego. It grips underfoot. The air carries salt and hot asphalt and somebody's coconut oil and the faintest trace of kelp rotting in the sun.

A gull screams overhead. The pier's wooden planks are bleached pale, and I can see a few figures sitting on the sea wall, legs dangling.

Everyone here is with someone else, girlfriends, boyfriends, friends etc. Everyone except me.

That's when I see her.

She's coming out of the water. Not walking she is more striding.

Long steps, sure-footed, a surfboard under her right arm. Her hair is platinum blonde, plastered dark against her head and shoulders, dripping. Leaving a trail in her wake.

As she moves, it starts to dry, lightening, lifting in the breeze.

She's tall. Five-ten, maybe. Tanned skin that kind of glows, the kind of tan you only get from hundreds of hours in the sun, not from lying on a towel for a weekend. Her shoulders are broad, arms defined, the kind of muscle that comes from paddling. Real muscle. Functional. Not bulked up falsely for the sake of posing.

She wears black board shorts and a pink bikini top.

The top barely contains her chest, she's big I'll say that. She's got to be a D-cup, easy and the fabric's darkened with water, pulled taut.

A shark tooth pendant hangs from a string around her neck, bouncing against her sternum as she walks.

Her toenails are painted red. So are her fingernails. Red lips, too, and I wonder if that's lipstick or if her mouth is just naturally that colour, flushed from the cold water.

I stop walking. I don't mean to. My feet just quit on me.

The board under my arm suddenly feels heavier than it did a moment ago, and I'm aware of the sand on my knees, the damp patch on my shirt, the cracked nose on my rented longboard. She's coming toward me.

Well, not toward me specifically toward the parking lot, toward the sea wall but the trajectory puts her right in my path.

She glances at me. Blue eyes. Not pale blue, not grey-blue, but that saturated California-sky blue.

She holds the look for about two seconds, then her gaze drops to my board.

The cracked nose. The yellowed fiberglass. The rental sticker on the deck that I forgot to peel off.

In some ways the board's an embarrassment.

She looks at me and grins.

She grins a grin. It's small, crooked, one corner of her mouth pulling higher than the other. She keeps walking.

My face is hot. I'm sunburned, but this is different.

I watch her go board shorts low on her hips, the curve of her lower back above the waistband, that easy loose-hipped walk of someone who's spent her life in the ocean. Almost like the Californian version of the little mermaid.

She reaches the sea wall, props her board upright, and sits down on the concrete.

She pulls something from the pocket of her shorts, a comb, and starts working it through her wet hair.

I should keep walking. I should go surf. That's why I'm here. But my feet carry me toward the sea wall instead, and before I know it I'm standing ten feet from her, board under my arm, trying to think of something to say that doesn't sound like a line. A flimsy silly line.

"Rentals," I say. I nod toward her board.

It's a beautiful board rounded nose, clean, a deep red resin tint that catches the light.

"Yours?" I say after surveying her board.

She looks up. Comb mid-stroke.

"Excuse me?" She answers almost out of courtesy more than anything else.

"Your board. Not a rental." I say.

She tilts her head. The pendant shifts.

"How'd you know?" She asks almost hinting that she is taking an interest in me.

I hold up my own board, turning it so she can see the cracked nose, the sticker.

"I'm an expert on rentals." I say in a self-deprecating way.

She laughs.

It's a real laugh loud, sudden, surprised.

She covers her mouth with her hand, red nails against her lips, and I can see the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes.

She's maybe twenty. Something about her face is open, unguarded, like she hasn't learned to be careful with her expressions yet.

"Oh God," she says.

"That's tragic. What happened to the nose?" She asks smiling and pointing at the board.

"Wipeout. About an hour ago. The wave won." I say.

"The wave always wins." She says wisely.

She sets the comb down and extends her hand.

"Maggie. Most people call me Mags." She says warmly.

I take her hand. Her grip is firm, calloused. Her touch is warm, gentle yet firm.

"Ed. Ed Morris." I introduce myself.

"Ed." She says as she studies me, those blue eyes moving from my face to my chest to my board and back.

"You from around here?" She asks as she pats the spot next to her.

"Reseda. I drove down for the day. My one day off." I explain as I sit next to her.

"What do you do?" Mags asks.

"Hardware store. My uncle's place." I reply.

She nods.

"I work the diner up on Main Street. And the surf hire shack on weekends." She explains.

She glances at my board again.

"You should've come to my shack. I'd have given you a better board." She says light heartedly

"Didn't know." I explain.

She shrugs. One shoulder lifts, and the bikini strap shifts. I can see the edge of a tan line, the pale imprint where the fabric usually sits.

She catches me looking. She doesn't move the strap. Doesn't cover up. Just holds my eyes for a beat, then looks toward the water.

"Going back out?" she asks.

"Maybe. The sets are messy right now. I can't read them." I say trying to sound impressive like I know what I'm talking about. I don't and somehow it shows.

"You can't read sets," she says. It's not a question.

She stands, picks up her board, tucks it under her arm. Her bicep flexes.

"Come on. I'll show you." Mags says.

She's already walking. I follow.

We paddle out together. The water is cold, August warm on top, but the underneath current pulls icy and sharp.

Maggie paddles with an economy of motion I can't replicate. Her arms cut the water clean, no splash, and she reads the swells like she's reading words, positioning herself before the sets even form.

I watch her catch a wave. She pops up in one fluid motion, feet planted, and carves a long, lazy arc across the face.

She crosses the board, walks up to the nose, hangs five toes over the edge. The wave crumbles behind her and she steps back, turns, rides it in.

She makes it look like breathing. Natural, perfect.

I catch a few. Stand up. Don't fall. My turns are clumsy, forced, and I can feel the difference between her and me like it's a physical thing.

But I stay out. We sit on our boards in the lineup, side by side, and the sun drops lower.

The light goes from amber to copper to something deep and pinkish, the kind of colour that makes the ocean look like a sheet of hammered metal.

"You're not bad," she says.

She's sitting astride her board, legs dangling in the water. Her hair is mostly dry now, loose and straight, lifting in the offshore breeze.

"Your pop-up's solid. You just need to commit to your turns. You're bailing early." She comments.

"I know." I admit.

"It's okay. Most guys can't even stand up." She says and she grins.

"Most guys also can't admit when they suck." She says laughing.

"I work at a hardware store in Reseda. I've got no illusions." I say.

She laughs again. That same surprised laugh.

Water drips from her hair onto her shoulders, runs down her chest, and I can see the goosebumps rising on her skin.

She shivers. The light catches the shark tooth pendant, and I realize the sun is setting fast. The sky's gone full orange-pink, and the water reflects it, and the beach is emptying out.

Families packing up coolers. Surfers heading in.

"We should go in, Unless you want to paddle back in the dark." She says.

We ride the last wave in.

Well, she rides it in. I fall. But I'm up and sputtering, dragging my board through the shallows, and she's standing on the wet sand waiting for me with that crooked grin.

"You'll get there," she says offering me her hand.

The beach is almost empty now. The sun's a red smear on the horizon, bleeding into the Pacific. The light's gone soft and dim, and the air's cooling fast.

We walk up the beach together, boards under our arms, and Maggie stops near a patch of sand above the tide line.

She drops her board, lies down on it stomach down, chin propped on her hands.

She pats the sand next to her.

I set my board down and sit beside her.

The sand's still warm, holding the day's heat. She smells like salt and coconut oil and something else, something underneath.

"The sunset's the best part," she says.

"Most people leave before it happens." She says softly as she watches the sun set lower.

"I almost did." I reply.

"Why'd you stay?" She asks.

I look at her. She's watching the sky, and the pink-orange light plays across her face, catching the angles of her cheekbones, her jaw.

Her lips are slightly parted. The shark tooth pendant rests on the board beneath her chin.

"Had a feeling," I say. Smoothly it is so unlike me I am not 'smooth' I am anything but, but this come out smooth like velvet.

She rolls onto her back, looking up at me.

Her bikini top's shifted with the movement, and I can see the swell of her breasts pressing against the wet pink fabric, the faint shadow of her nipples through the material.

She doesn't adjust it. She stretches, arms above her head, back arching slightly, and I watch the muscles in her stomach tighten and release.

She is toned, not an ounce of fat on her, toned arms, shoulders, legs, flat stomach and topped with those big boobs.

"What kind of feeling?" she asks saucily.

I don't answer. I'm looking at her mouth. The red lips. The way they're slightly chapped from the salt water.

"Ed, You're staring." she says.

"I know." I reply grinning.

She doesn't tell me to stop. Instead, she reaches up and hooks her hand behind my neck. Her fingers are cold from the water. She pulls me down.

Her mouth meets mine. She tastes like salt and the faint sweetness of coconut oil.

Her lips are dry from the ocean, slightly rough, and when I press mine against them she opens immediately, her tongue finding mine.

She kisses with the same sureness she brings to the ocean, it's direct, confident, no hesitation. Her hand tightens on my neck. I'm bracing myself above her on one arm, the other finding her waist. Her skin is cool from the water but warming fast under my palm.

She pulls back. Her eyes are dark in the fading light, the blue gone almost grey.

"Here," she says. She kisses me

"On the board." She says.

"Maggie!" I say mindful that there is still a sprinkling on people around.

"Right here." She reaches for the clasp of her bikini top, fumbling behind her back. The fabric goes slack. She pulls it off and drops it in the sand.

Her breasts are full, heavy DD, I'd guessed right. The nipples are pink, large areolas that pucker in the cool air. Her chest is still damp, and the last sunlight catches the water beading on her skin.

She takes my hand and puts it on her breast. The weight of it fills my palm, warm and soft, and I can feel her nipple hardening against my skin.

"On the board," she repeats.

She pushes me back, stands, and pulls her board shorts down. She's bare underneath.

Trimmed blonde hair, and I can see the pink of her, and she's already wet.

She straddles the longboard, lying back on it, and pulls me on top of her. The board rocks slightly beneath our combined weight.

I kiss her neck, her collarbone. I drag my mouth down to her breast and take her nipple between my lips.

She arches into me, fingers tangling in my red hair. I run my tongue over the stiffened peak, then the other, tasting salt and skin. I nip gently, and she sucks in a breath through her teeth.

"Harder," she whispers.

I close my teeth around her nipple, pulling slightly.

She makes a sound, it's low, throaty and her hips buck up against mine. I'm still wearing my cutoffs, and the friction is maddening. I can feel her heat through the denim.

She reaches down and unbuttons my shorts.

Her fingers find me hard, straining and she wraps her hand around my cock, stroking once, twice. I groan against her breast.

"Ed. I want you inside me." Mags breathes and then nips my neck.

I push my shorts down. The board is narrow beneath us, and I have to balance carefully, but she wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me forward. I can feel her, she's hot, slick, ready.

I press against her entrance and she lifts her hips, and I slide in.

She's tight, gripping, and the sensation hits me like a wave, total, overwhelming. I bury myself to the hilt and we both exhale.

"Fuck," I breathe.

"Maggie" I say pausing.

"Move. Fuck me." She demands as she pulls my hair

I start slow, pulling back, pushing in, feeling every inch of her. The board rocks beneath us, the fiberglass flexing. I can hear the waves crashing behind us, the tide coming in. She wraps her legs tighter, digging her heels into my lower back. Her nails rake down my shoulders.

"Faster," she demands.

"God, faster." She demands of me.

I drive into her harder. The board shifts on the sand, and I brace one foot against the ground to steady us. She's moaning now, and she's not quiet about it sharp gasps that cut through the sound of the surf. I can feel her tightening around me, her thighs trembling.

"Ed! right there! don't stop!" She cries out her voice loud and clear.

I keep the angle, driving into her, watching her face in the last light.

Her mouth is open, her eyes squeezed shut. Her breasts bounce with each thrust, nipples hard and pink against the tanned skin.

"Turn over," I say. I pull out and she flips on the board, face down, ass up.

I can see everything, the curve of her lower back, the roundness of her ass, the pink of her pussy glistening. I grab her hips and enter her from behind. She pushes back against me, taking me deep.

"Oh God! YES!" She squeals as she grips the board, knuckles white. I reach around and cup her breast, squeezing, pinching her nipple.

She pushes back harder, meeting my thrusts, and the sound of our bodies skin on skin, wet is obscene and perfect.

I lean forward. My mouth finds her ear.

"You're so fucking tight," I whisper. Then I suck on her ear lobe.

She shudders.

"You feel so good inside me. Don't stop." She whimpers.

I fuck her harder, pulling her hips back into me. My other hand slides up her back, into her hair. I gather a fistful of blonde pulling her head back gently but firmly. She gasps. Her back arches. I can feel her clenching around me.

"Ed! I'm going to! Going to!" She cries almost whimpering.

"Do it." I growl throatily.

She cums with a cry that echoes off the sea wall.

Her whole body shakes, and I can feel her pulsing around me.

I'm close, right there, and I thrust deep, holding, and I cum inside her with a groan that tears out of my chest.

We collapse onto the board. Her back is against my chest, my forehead resting on her shoulder. I can feel her heartbeat through her skin, fast and hard. The sky is purple now, the last sliver of sun gone. The air is cooling rapidly.

"Wow," she breathes.

"Yeah." I say somehow it is all I can manage.

"We should." She mentions.

She shifts, and I slip out of her. She turns, looks at me. Her hair is tangled, her lips swollen.

"We should get off this board before the tide takes it." She says. It is then I notice the whole time the tide has been inching closer and closer.

We dress quickly. I pull up my shorts, and she reties her bikini top, adjusting the fabric over her breasts. She picks up her shorts and shakes the sand off. We grab our boards and walk toward the parking lot, feet bare in the cool sand.

"That's mine," I say, pointing at the woodie.

She stops.

"You drive a woodie?" Mags says sounding rather surprised.

"Well, it belongs to my brother-in-law. He's trusting me with it for the day." I explain as I unlock the tailgate and set my board inside. She leans hers against the side of the wagon and looks through the window at the interior.

"Can I see inside?" Mags asks the excitement in her voice apparent.

"Sure." I open the tailgate fully. The cargo area is lined with faded green carpet, and there are a couple of old blankets piled at the front. The wood-framed windows let in the last dim light.

She climbs in. She moves to the back, settling against the blankets, and looks up at me. The pendant rests between her breasts. She's drawn her knees up, arms wrapped around them.

"Come here," she says.

I climb in after her, pulling the tailgate shut. It's dim inside, warm, and the smell of old vinyl and Lucky Strikes and salt air fills the space.

The green carpet is rough under my hands. She reaches for me, pulling me down beside her.

"I'm not done with you," she whispers.

She kisses me again, slow this time, exploring. Her tongue traces my lower lip, then dips into my mouth. I can taste myself on her breath, and something about that makes me hard again. She notices. Her hand slides down my chest, past the damp t-shirt, and finds me through my shorts.

"Already," she murmurs against my mouth. I can hear the smile in it.

"Can't help it." I meekly offer.

She pulls my shirt over my head and tosses it aside.

Her hands run over my chest, my stomach. She's straddling me now, her weight warm on my hips.

She pulls her bikini top off again, slowly, deliberately, and lets it drop. Her breasts hang heavy, swaying as she leans forward. She takes my hand and places it on her chest.

"Squeeze," she says.

I do. I cup her breast, feeling the weight, the softness. I run my thumb over her nipple, and it hardens under my touch. She shivers.

"Harder." She moans.

I squeeze firmly, and she lets out a breath. I lean up and take her nipple in my mouth, sucking, swirling my tongue. She cradles my head against her, fingers in my hair.

"Both, I want you to touch both." she whispers.

I bring my other hand up, cupping her other breast. I alternate, mouth on one, hand on the other, pinching and rolling her nipple between my fingers.

She's grinding against me now, her hips moving in slow circles. I can feel her heat through the fabric.

"Ed." She pulls back.

"I want to do something." She tells me.

She slides down my body. She unbuttons my shorts and pulls them down. My cock is straining, flushed, and she wraps her hand around it. She looks up at me, those blue eyes in the dim light, and then she takes me in her mouth.

She takes me deep, deeper than I thought possible. Her lips slide all the way to the base, and I can feel the back of her throat. She holds there, then pulls back slowly, her tongue working the underside. My hips jerk involuntarily.

"Jesus! Maggie!" I exclaim loudly.

She does it again, taking me to the root. Her throat constricts around me, and I can feel her swallowing. She pulls back, gasping, a string of saliva connecting her mouth to my cock. She grins.

"Like that?" She quips.

"God, yes." I excitedly reply.

She takes me again, bobbing her head. One hand cups my balls, rolling them gently. The other grips the base of my cock, stroking in time with her mouth. I can feel the pressure building.

"Wait" I say as I pull her up.

"I want, I want to be inside you again." I say.

She straddles me, and this time she reaches between us and guides me in. She sinks down slowly, taking me inch by inch. Her mouth opens, and a soft moan escapes.

"Oh, God." She moans as she starts to move, riding me.

Her breasts sway with each movement. I reach up and grab them, squeezing, pinching her nipples. She picks up the pace, grinding down, and I can feel her tightening around me.

"Turn around," I say.

"I want to see your ass." I continue as I gently playfully spank her ass.

She lifts off and turns, straddling me in reverse. I can see her back, the curve of her spine, the roundness of her ass. She takes me in again, and I grab her hips, guiding her movements. The sight of her, and my cock disappearing into her is almost too much.

I reach around and find her clit, rubbing in slow circles. She moans, throwing her head back.

"Yes, right there don't stop." Maggie cries out.

I keep rubbing, thrusting up into her. She's tightening, trembling. I wet my thumb and press it against her ass just a gentle pressure, circling the tight ring of muscle there. She gasps.

"Ed!" She cries.

"Is this okay?" I ask softly, meekly. Almost like a child seeking it's parent's permission to do something.

"Yes! Oh God yes! Don't stop!" She cries.

I keep pressing, feeling her relax, and my thumb slips in.

She cries out, and I can feel her clenching both around my cock and around my thumb. The dual pressure is intense.

"Fuck, fuck, I'm going to." She stammers before letting go with an almost blood curdling cry.

She cums, her whole body shuddering. I can feel her pulsing around me, and I thrust up hard, once, twice, and I cum again deep inside her with a loud, but firm grunt.

We collapse together. She turns, and we're lying on the faded green carpet, tangled in old blankets.

The air is warm and close, scented with sex and salt and old vinyl. I can hear the waves outside, distant now.

The radio crackles some station coming through faintly, a song I almost recognize.

She traces patterns on my chest with her fingernail. Red polish catching the dim light from the wood-framed windows.

"So, Reseda, huh?" she says.

"Yeah." I reply proudly.

"What's it like?" She asks as she snuggles in closer.

"Hot. Boring. My uncle's store opens at seven, closes at six. I stock shelves, cut keys, sell nails to contractors. Six days a week." I explain.

"And you drive all the way down here on your one day off to surf." She muses.

"Yeah." I reply.

She's quiet for a moment. Her hand stills on my chest.

"What are you going to do? I mean, long-term. You can't work at a hardware store forever." She states sounding almost motherly.

"I don't know." I reply as I stare at the wood-panelled ceiling.

"I've been thinking about it. Maybe college. Maybe becoming a cop. Or a fireman. I can't decide." I explain further.

"A cop?" Maggy asks in reply as she props herself up on one elbow. Her hair falls over her shoulder, blonde against the tanned skin.

"You don't seem like a cop." She says.

"What do I seem like?" I ask almost defensively.

She studies me.

"Somebody who's still figuring it out. Which is fine. We're all still figuring it out." She says.

"What about you? The diner and the surf shack that's not forever either." I bite back.

"I don't know either." She laughs softly.

"Nurse, maybe. Or a teacher. I keep going back and forth." She explains.

"Nurse is good. You'd be good at it." I say to her as I look in her blue eyes.

"You think?" She replies as she runs her hand over my chest.

"You're." I pause.

"You're direct. You don't mess around. I think that's good in a nurse." I mention.

She smiles, but it fades. She lies back down, her head on my shoulder. The pendant presses against my chest.

"Can I ask you something?" she says.

"Sure." I reply with a smile.

"Are you worried about the draft?" She asks me her tone serious.

The word lands like a stone in still water. The draft. Vietnam. I haven't thought about anything else for weeks, but hearing it from her, in this moment, makes it real in a different way.

"Yeah," I say.

"I am." I continue.

"My boyfriend." She says and stops.

"My last boyfriend. He got drafted. Went over there. He didn't come back." She explains her voice starting to crack.

I'm quiet. I can feel her breathing against me, the rise and fall of her chest.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"It was last year. Danny. He was" She clears her throat.

"He was a good surfer. Better than me. He could read sets like nobody I've ever seen. He was good at it. Reading sets. He wanted to be a teacher." She says.

She laughs, but it's a different laugh smaller, fragile.

I stare at the ceiling. The wood grain is dark, varnished, and in the dim light it looks almost black. "I don't know what I'd do. If I got the letter." I admit.

"Would you go?" She asks.

"I don't know." It's the truth.

"Part of me thinks I don't know. Part of me thinks I should go. Do my duty. My old man served in Korea. My uncle was in the Pacific in World War II. My brother-in-law, the one whose woodie this is he was in the Navy." I explain.

"And the other part?" Mag asks sitting up slightly.

"The other part thinks it's a waste. Boys going over there, dying, for what? For some country, most people couldn't find on a map?" I say.

She's quiet. Her fingers trace a line down my sternum.

"Danny said the same thing, Before he left. He said it didn't make sense. But he went anyway." she says.

"Why?" I ask.

She's quiet for a long moment. Outside, the waves crash steadily.

"He said he couldn't live with himself if he didn't. That he'd think about the guys who went every day and he'd wonder if he should've been there. If he could've helped." She explains.

I think about that. I think about the guys at the hardware store Tommy, who stocks the lumber yard, he's in the Army now, shipped out last month. I think about the newspaper headlines, the body counts, the maps with arrows and territories I don't understand.

"What do you think I should do?" I ask.

She lifts her head. Those blue eyes, serious now, all the playfulness gone.

"I can't tell you that, Ed." She admits.

"I know." I reply.

"But" She says as she sits up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. Her breasts are hidden now, but I can see the shape of them through the fabric.

"If you go I don't want you to go because you think you have to be like your old man. Or your uncle. Or Danny. Go because you believe it's right. Not because you're afraid of what people will think if you don't." She explains.

She reaches for my hand. Her grip is firm, calloused the same grip from when we shook hands on the sea wall.

"And if you don't go don't let anyone make you feel like less of a man. That's bullshit. Danny's dead. Being brave didn't keep him alive." She says her tone changing to sounding slightly angry.

I squeeze her hand. The radio crackles again. I recognize the song now "Surfer Girl" by the Beach Boys. Brian Wilson's voice drifts through the tinny speaker, sweet and yearning.

Maggie smiles.

"I love this song." She says smiling.

"Yeah?" I reply.

"Yeah." She leans her head against my shoulder.

"My dad used to play it on the radio in his workshop. He's a mechanic. Has his own shop. I used to sit on the workbench and swing my legs and he'd sing along. And Al Jardine came in one day, and everyone says it's about me." She explains with a small giggle. The timing was good as it broke the sombre mood.

I listen to the lyrics. Little surfer girl, little surfer girl. The melody drifts through the woodie, mixing with the sound of the waves outside. The sky through the wood-framed windows is fully dark now, stars beginning to show.

"Ed?" Mags asks.

"Yeah?" I reply.

"Will you come back? Next Sunday?" Mags asks.

I turn to look at her. The starlight catches her face her cheekbones, her lips, the pendant at her throat.

"Yeah, I'll come back. Try to stop me." I say.

"Good." She says and settles against me.

"I'll give you a better board. And I'll teach you to read sets." She says as she rests her head on my shoulder.

"Deal." I say.

We lie there in the back of the woodie, the radio playing, the ocean breathing outside. I think about the draft. I think about Vietnam. I think about Danny, who could read sets like nobody she'd ever seen, and who didn't come back. I think about my uncle's hardware store and the keys I cut and the nails I sell. I think about college, about being a cop, about being a fireman. At least being a cop or fireman I would avoid 'Nam and not being a politician's son Canada is too cold.

And I think about Maggie. Her hand in mine, calloused and sure. The weight of her head on my shoulder. The shark tooth pendant pressing against my skin.

My little surfer girl.

The song ends. The radio crackles. Another song begins. I close my eyes.

And the radio plays on and Maggie and I snuggle, uncertain of what the future holds for both of us, except that we will both be here sametime next week.