![]() My mother would pace along the shoreline yelling, “¡Ten cuidado!” She always wondered why I turned toward the ocean and not her. I have no memories of my mother allowing the waves to reach past her ankles, and my father never learned to swim. I would pad along into the water and plunge headfirst into the sea. I was raised in San Diego, but this was abnormal for my family. I spent most of my childhood playing in saltwater. I nodded, “A bit,” and adjusted my weight belt, securing the knife in its sheath. The boys cordially shook my hand, asking if I had done this before. The Aquatic Country Boy and his sidekick strolled over to Liam and exchanged Neolithic handshakes. His passenger door burst open and out popped an overly excited teenager whose hair resembled charred tumbleweed. A small dude in a camo hoodie and a trucker hat hopped out. Then a gargantuan Ford Raptor with a blinding overhead light bar pulled up. He told me to sit tight while we waited for the others. ![]() It was dark, but passing headlights allowed me to spot his wavy hair and goddamn fraternity sweatshirt. He skirted past me as I opened my car door, busying himself by inspecting the gear in my truck bed-occasionally speaking, half to me, half to the sky. I sat anxiously in my pickup truck on Pacific Coast Highway, waiting to go nighttime lobster diving with a guy I just met.Īt 8:30 P.M., Liam arrived in his eighties Jeep Wrangler.
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