Page 18 of The Beach Shack Summer (Laguna Beach #2)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T yler was trying to be quiet, but camera bags weren’t made for stealth. The zipper on his equipment bag sounded like a chainsaw in the pre-dawn silence, and he froze, listening for signs that he’d woken anyone.

“Going somewhere?”

He jumped, nearly dropping his lens. Stella stood in the hallway, still in pajama pants and an oversized Sydney FC shirt, looking amused by his reaction.

“Surf photography,” he whispered. “Dawn light’s perfect. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. Meg’s printer did. She’s been running it since four.” Stella yawned. “Where do you go?”

“Salt Creek. Good break, nice angles.” He shouldered his bag. “Want to come?”

“To watch you take pictures?”

“To see the sunrise. Maybe grab breakfast after. ”

Stella considered this, then held up a finger. “Wait here.”

She disappeared into her room and came back holding something behind her back, grinning in a way that made Tyler nervous.

“Going to take surf pictures?” she asked innocently.

“That’s what I said.”

“Like this one?” She produced a square photograph with a flourish.

Tyler stared at the Polaroid in horror. There he was, sixteen years old, attempting to look cool while holding a surfboard that was clearly too big for him. But the worst part was the hair—a bleached-blond disaster that defied both gravity and good taste.

“Where did you?—”

“Margo. She gave it to me when I went for basil last week. Said you went through a ‘surf god phase.’” Stella studied the photo. “The puka shells really complete the look.”

“I blocked out the puka shells.”

“And the bleached tips?”

“It was 2004. Everyone had bleached tips.”

“Did everyone look like a radioactive pineapple?”

“Okay, that’s—” Tyler reached for the photo, but Stella danced back.

“She said you had a Polaroid camera? The one that took this?”

Tyler paused. “Yeah, actually. Think it’s in the closet somewhere.”

“Does it still work? ”

“No idea. Haven’t used it in years.” He looked at her curiously. “Why?”

Stella shrugged, suddenly interested in the hallway carpet. “Just thought it might be cool. You know. Instant pictures. Retro or whatever.”

Tyler recognized the studied casualness—the same tone he used when trying not to care about something that mattered. “Want to look for it?”

“If you want.”

“Come on.”

The hall closet was an archaeological dig of Tyler’s life, made worse by boxes of Meg’s overflow office supplies stacked in front. They had to move three boxes of printer paper and a tower of manila folders just to reach Tyler’s stuff.

“Why does Meg need so many folders?” Stella asked, setting aside another box.

“Color-coded filing systems, apparently. Don’t touch the order or she’ll know.”

“She’ll know?”

“She has a system.”

“For closet boxes?”

“For everything.”

Twenty minutes later, they’d excavated enough to reach the back. Tyler pulled out a battered camera bag, dusty and forgotten.

“This is it?”

“Should be.” He unzipped it carefully. The Polaroid camera nestled inside, a vintage model that had seemed impossibly cool when he was sixteen. “Sun 660. Got it at a yard sale.”

“Does it work?”

Tyler popped open the film compartment. Empty, but the mechanisms looked intact. He pressed the power button and a red light blinked on.

“Battery still works. That’s something.” He handed it to Stella. “Need film though.”

“Where do you get film for something this old?”

“Good question. Maybe Camera Cave? They’re kind of specialty. Otherwise we’ll have to order online.”

Stella held the camera carefully, looking through the viewfinder. “This is actually pretty cool.”

“Want to bring it? See if we can find film after?”

“Yeah?” She tried to sound casual, but Tyler caught her smile.

“Get dressed. Sun waits for no one.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were in Tyler’s truck heading down PCH. Stella had the Polaroid in her lap and kept picking it up to frame shots through the window.

“Can’t waste film we don’t have yet,” Tyler said.

“I’m practicing.” She aimed at a donut shop. “Getting a feel for it.”

“Very professional.”

The sky was starting to lighten as they reached Salt Creek. Tyler grabbed his equipment while Stella wandered to the overlook, Polaroid in hand.

“Whoa,” she said.

The ocean stretched out before them, still dark but beginning to catch the first hints of light. A few surfers were already out, black silhouettes against the grey water.

“Nice, right?” Tyler started setting up his telephoto lens. “Best time of day out here.”

“It’s so quiet.”

“Wait till the sun actually rises. Changes everything.”

Stella pulled out her phone and started taking pictures. Tyler noticed her technique—how she waited for the surfers to hit certain positions, how she adjusted angles to catch the light.

“You’ve got a good eye,” he said.

“Margo said the same thing. About knowing what matters. What to keep.”

“She’s usually right about that stuff.”

They stood in comfortable silence, Tyler shooting with his professional setup while Stella used her phone. The sky began its show—deep purple to pink to orange to gold.

“Oh!” Stella grabbed his arm as a surfer caught a perfect wave just as the sun crested the horizon. “Did you get that?”

“Think so.” Tyler checked his display. “Yeah. That’ll be a good one.”

“How do they not freeze out there?”

“Wetsuits. Good ones. Plus you warm up once you’re moving.” He glanced at her. “You ever surf?”

“Yeah, I kept at it after you left.” Stella kept her eyes on the ocean. “Bondi’s brutal but good for learning. ”

“You did?” Tyler couldn’t hide his surprise. “By yourself?”

“Had to. You either learn fast there or get destroyed.” She shrugged. “I’m decent now. Not embarrassing myself anymore.”

“That’s great! But California waves are different. Pacific has its own rhythm - more mellow, but the reefs here shape things differently.” Tyler changed lenses, already planning. “Want me to show you how our breaks work? Could help you adapt.”

“Yeah, okay.” A small smile played at her lips. “Could be fun to surf somewhere with less than two hundred people trying to kill me.”

“Definitely less crowded. Though the locals might notice a new face.” Tyler paused, remembering. “Last time I tried to teach you at Bondi, you were maybe four? You kept trying to stand up backwards. We both ended up frustrated. You told me the ocean was stupid and you were never going in again.”

“Sounds like me.”

“You were very decisive. Even then.” Tyler smiled at the memory. “But you kept at it anyway. That’s kind of your thing.”

“My thing?”

“Yeah. You decided to learn to drive, memorized the whole manual in three days. Decided to work at the Shack, mastered Joey’s napkin system. When you want something, you make it happen.”

“Oh.” She turned back to the ocean, still taking pictures with her phone .

“I’ll ask Luke to help show you the local breaks. He knows every reef from here to San Clemente. We’ll get Meg out too - been years since she’s been on a board.”

“Sure. Why not?”

Tyler laughed. “I’ll ask Luke. He’s the actual professional. Taught Meg back in the day. And we’ll see if Meg wants to join—been years since she’s been on a board.”

They stayed until the full sun was up and the beach started filling with morning joggers and dog walkers. Tyler packed up his equipment while Stella took a few last phone shots.

“Camera Cave opens at eight,” Tyler said, checking the time. “Want to see about film?”

“Can we get breakfast first? I’m starving.”

“Café’s right next door. Best breakfast burritos in Laguna.”

They drove back up PCH, Stella reviewing her phone photos while Tyler navigated the increasing traffic.

“These are actually pretty good,” she said, sounding surprised.

“Can I see?”

She held up her phone at a red light. The composition was impressive—she’d caught a surfer mid-turn with the sun creating a perfect silhouette.

“That’s really good, Stella. Like, really good.”

“It’s just a phone picture.”

“It’s not about the equipment. It’s about seeing the moment.” The light changed. “You’ve got it. ”

“Got what?”

“The eye. Same thing artists have. Seeing what makes a good shot.”

“Oh.” She looked pleased. “Thanks.”

Camera Cave was a cramped shop that smelled like old plastic and chemistry. The owner, an aging hippie named Gary, lit up when he saw the Polaroid.

“Sun 660! Classic. Still making film for these beauties.” He disappeared into the back, returning with several boxes. “Polaroid Originals. Not cheap, but they work.”

“How much?” Stella asked.

“Twenty-eight for eight shots.”

“Eight shots?” She looked dismayed. “That’s it?”

“Instant film, kiddo. Quality over quantity.”

Tyler was already pulling out his wallet. “We’ll take three packs.”

“Tyler, that’s expensive?—“

“Consider it driving lesson payment.” He handed over the cash. “Besides, you need practice shots.”

Gary showed Stella how to load the film, how to wait for development, how to store the photos properly. She absorbed it all with the same intensity she’d applied to the DMV handbook.

“First shot’s always a test,” Gary advised. “Don’t waste it on something important.”

Outside the shop, Stella immediately raised the camera.

“What are you doing?”

“Test shot.” She aimed at Tyler. “Smile. ”

“Stella—”

Click. Whir. The photo ejected with a mechanical sound that made them both grin.

“Now we wait,” Stella said, holding it carefully. “Three minutes,” Gary said.

They sat on a bench outside the café, watching the image slowly materialize. Tyler’s face emerged from the chemicals—caught mid-protest, hair messy from the morning wind, but smiling despite himself.

“Your hair looks better than in the high school one,” Stella observed.

“Low bar.”

“I’m keeping both. For comparison purposes.” She tucked the new photo carefully into her bag. “Breakfast?”

“Breakfast.”

Over breakfast burritos, Stella plotted her photo strategy with the seriousness of a military campaign. Twenty-four shots total. She needed to document important things. Not waste them.

“It’s just film,” Tyler said. “We can get more.”

“But these are my first ones. They should matter.”

“They will. Whatever you choose.”

She took her second shot right there—Tyler mid-bite of burrito, hot sauce dripping, eyes wide with surprise.

“Stella!”

“Important moment. First real burrito that doesn’t come from a kit.” She waved the developing photo. “In Sydney, we think Old El Paso is authentic Mexican. ”

Tyler nearly choked on his burrito. “Old El Paso? That’s... that’s not Mexican food.”

“Tell that to Australia. We have whole aisles dedicated to taco kits.” She took another bite, looking genuinely amazed. “This is so much better. And no beetroot!”

“Beetroot?” Tyler set down his burrito. “In Mexican food?”

“In everything. Burgers, sandwiches, wraps. I went to a place in Bondi that did ‘authentic Mexican’ and they put beetroot in the tacos.”

“That’s... that’s a crime against tacos.”

“Right? And they were so proud of it too. ‘Aussie-Mex fusion’ they called it.”

Tyler shook his head solemnly. “I’ve probably eaten thousands of tacos in my life. Real ones, from trucks and holes-in-the-wall and abuela’s kitchens. Never once seen a beetroot anywhere near one.”

“What about pineapple?”

“That’s... complicated. Real al pastor has some, but it’s a whole thing.”

“Everything’s complicated with you and food.” Stella studied him. “For someone who can barely make grilled cheese without Margo’s supervision, you sure know a lot about eating.”

“Hey, I’m an expert eater. Professional level. It’s the cooking part that gets tricky.”

“Right. That’s why Meg hides her good leftovers behind your expired yogurt.”

“She does not—” Tyler paused. “She does? ”

“Behind the yogurt from March. She knows you won’t touch it.”

Tyler looked genuinely betrayed. “I thought I was just really bad at finding things.”

“You are. But she also strategically hides them.”

“Huh.” Stella looked at her burrito with new respect. “Mum said the Mexican food here would ruin me for Sydney’s version.”

“She was right about that.” Tyler picked up his burrito again. “Welcome to real Mexican food.”

“Important moment then.” She held up the developing Polaroid. “Evidence of my first proper burrito experience. For historical documentation.”

“Yeah,” Tyler managed. “Important.”

By the time they got home, Meg was on the front porch with her laptop, apparently exiled from the house.

“Printer died,” she explained. “Needed quiet to troubleshoot. How was dawn patrol?”

“Good.” Stella held up the camera. “Got a Polaroid.”

“Nice! Take my picture. I need proof I lived through this deadline.”

Stella’s third shot: Meg surrounded by technology on the porch, looking frazzled but smiling.

“We’re getting you out of the house today,” Tyler said. “This is ridiculous.”

“After my presentation. Then we’ll figure something out.”

“We better,” Stella said, heading inside. “I need somewhere to put my pictures. ”

Tyler waited until she was gone, then sat next to Meg on the steps.

“She called me Dad,” he said quietly.

“Really?” Meg’s eyes widened. “When?”

“At breakfast. Just... dropped it in there like it was normal.”

“That’s huge, Tyler.”

“What do I do with that?”

“Nothing. Everything. Just... be her dad.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You’re teaching her to drive. And planning surf lessons, apparently?”

“About that—I want to teach her, but I need Luke for backup. Safety. And so I can take some pictures. You should come too.”

“Tyler, I haven’t surfed in?—“

“Twenty years?”

“Something like that.”

“All the more reason. When’s the last time you did something just for fun?”

“I have fun.”

“Spreadsheets don’t count.”

“They’re very satisfying spreadsheets.”

“Meg.”

“Fine. But if I drown, I’m haunting you.”

“Deal.”

Inside, they found Stella clearing a space on the fridge, moving Meg’s sticky notes aside.

“Photo wall,” she announced. “That okay?”

“Perfect,” Tyler said .

She put up the three Polaroids—Tyler protesting, Tyler with burrito, Meg with laptop. Next to them, she taped the old Polaroid of teenage Tyler with his surfboard.

“Good start,” she said, stepping back to admire them.

“Just the start,” Tyler agreed.

And looking at their faces already beginning to cluster on the fridge—a family in formation, one instant photo at a time—he thought maybe he understood something Margo had told him once.

It wasn’t about the pictures themselves. It was about choosing what mattered enough to keep.