Summer, 1974.
Standing on the shoreline of Santa Barbara, California, a completely naked young woman laughed in exultation. Skipping to the top of a colossal rock overlooking the ocean, she spread her arms, closed her eyes, and smiled. She was ready to fly. Back in Wyoming, she’d been Amy Green, but in her new life, she’d rechristened herself as Yvonne Anastasia Luciana. She was alone and completely independent, and from that point on, the beach was hers.
The vibrant red sunset was like a rush of blood, life, and power. The sky’s beating heart, that glorious golden orb, channeled energy right into her body. She spread out each unpainted finger and toe, feeling the wind brushing against every nerve ending in her skin and throwing her tangled brown dreadlocks behind her. In the darkening light, the beach looked black, and the waves looked white.
Yvonne called out to a passing flock of seagulls, “Get ready, California!” She laughed with unrestrained joy. “I’m here!”
California! It was unbelievable. Back home in Wyoming, everyone had always told her that her aspirations were impossible. When she’d started studying for a degree in interpretative dance, her friends had told her to give up. When she’d told them about her dream of living in Santa Barbara, they’d told her that she was high—an ironic statement, considering that while she studied and practiced, all of them were busy wasting their nights away on plastic bags filled with addictive substances.
Way off in the white ocean, she spotted three tiny black silhouettes. The surfers seemed as unaware of her existence as she had been of theirs. Yvonne smiled. She’d been there almost a full day, and the only person she’d met was her new landlord, Mr. Brown. If she planned on sticking around, she might as well get to know the locals.
Yvonne stepped down from her perch on the rock. The soft sand felt heavenly under her bare feet. She reached down into her knitted bag, which was mostly full of mouthwatering Santa Barbara oranges, and pulled out her white-and-blue-patterned beach wrap. It was a little bit revealing; her mother certainly wouldn’t have approved. If one thing had carried over from her rebellious adolescence, other than her dreadlocks and vegetarian eating habits, it was an utter lack of self-consciousness. Besides, seeing the guys ogle her would be fun. It always was.
She strolled over to where the little surfers were surfing their hearts out. Just a little ways down the beach, she found their stuff: clothes, towels, flip-flops, and a cooler full of beer. All of it had been casually left there with no worries that anyone would take it. That sort of laid-back trust thrilled her. It was exactly what she’d hoped to find in California.
The sun was going down, so they’d come back to the beach soon. She sat down beside their belongings, crossing her legs and holding her bag on her lap. She tied back her dreads and put on her sunglasses so she could watch them. One surfer in particular was especially talented. His arms were steady, his legs like powerful tree trunks on the board. He rode the waves like a professional. Maybe he was a professional. That might be interesting…
Eventually, the three surfers returned to the shoreline, unzipping their black wetsuits as they waddled up the beach. Her surfer, perfectly enough, was in the middle. As the other two hopped around, playing and punching each other in the shoulders, the professional surfer walked ahead with a steady, measured gait, whistling a cheerful little tune that she didn’t recognize.
The descending sun’s glare was in their eyes, so none of them had seen her yet. The professional surfer’s friends seemed okay. The one on the left, a hyperactive fellow with curly hair, bounced around like a frenetic ball of energy. The one on the right, a wiry guy with hunched shoulders and a scraggly beard, looked a bit anxious, twitchy, and unsure of himself.
The professional surfer was gorgeous. A little older than she was, he was thin but athletic, with just the tiniest hint of a washboard stomach. He had wavy red hair, broad shoulders, tan skin, a strong neck, and thick chest hair. One of his friends said something, and he replied with a wonderfully hearty, infectious laugh.
“Hey, guys!” she called. “Want an orange?”
The men stopped and stared at her, all three doing a double-take. They continued walking, more slowly, each man fixing his wet hair, sucking in his stomach, and trying to appear more confident. She felt the energy of their eyes follow every curve of her body like little magnets.
“C’mon.” Yvonne laughed. “Don’t be shy. The oranges in this place are amazing. And I know you guys must be starving, especially after all that crazy surfing you were doing out there.”
She reached down into her bag, pulled out an orange, and tossed it to the curly-haired guy. The next one went to the anxious boy. She waited a bit, just long enough to make him worry, then tossed a third orange to the surfer.
“Thanks!” Curly Hair said.
“Yeah, wow, this is gnarly!” The anxious one had already started peeling the orange with his teeth.
The good-looking one casually turned the orange in his hand. He looked up at her with a surprisingly shy smile then quickly lowered his gaze. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Yvonne took off her sunglasses and beamed at him.
He jumped a little, twitching almost as if he’d been electrocuted. She pulled out a fourth orange and began peeling it slowly. Sensually.
A sudden breeze smacked her in the face, and she accidentally spilled the contents of her bag. The remaining oranges tumbled out and rolled across the sand. Her half-peeled orange dropped into her lap.
She laughed and threw her hands up in the air. “Oops! And they’re gone with the wind.”
The surfer chuckled, but his gaze remained concentrated on the orange in his hands.
Curly leapt forward and began scooping up the oranges. “That’s okay.” He grinned. “It happens.” He put the oranges into her bag.
“Guess the secret’s out. Yeah, I’m kind of a klutz.”
“Don’t worry!” Curly crossed his arms. “So what’s your name, pretty lady?”
“I’m Yvonne. I’m new to the area.”
“Well, hey, Yvonne. Welcome to our humble home.” Curly clapped his hands. “My name’s Chris, Chris Peele. This guy with the beard is my roommate, Phil, and this guy”—he pointed at the handsome surfer— “is my good buddy Gabe.”
“Gabriel,” the handsome one mumbled, though Chris didn’t appear to hear him. Gabriel stared at the ground and offered her an awkward wave.
Gabriel. She liked that name. She tilted her head. “Wow, it’s pretty thrilling to meet such skilled surfers on my first day here. You guys are great.”
Chris nodded. “We’re awesome, I know. You’re a pretty lovely lady yourself, though.”
“Yeah, real pretty,” Phil added, blushing.
Gabriel said nothing, which meant he was a challenge. She loved challenges.
“So, boys, what do you all do, other than surfing?” She kept her eyes squarely on her target, who had peeled the orange in a perfect spiral.
When the other two said nothing, apparently realizing where her attention was focused, Gabriel looked up at her. He dug one foot into the sand and smiled that lovely embarrassed smile of his again. “Wow,” he said, chuckling nervously. “We like to have fun, I guess. We try to do exciting things. Surfing, roller coasters, skydiving, that sort of stuff. We drink a lot. Throw parties. Smoke pot sometimes. Mainly just drinking, though.”
Yvonne laughed. The guy was a terrible liar. He’d said all of that as if he were listing off bullet points for a test. “What else?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Nothing much.”
“C’mon, dude,” Chris said. “Yvonne, honey, don’t listen to this guy. He’s being shy. This dude here, my buddy? He’s smart as a fuckin’ whip.”
