Page 4 of This Is Who I Am

ESTELLE

What in the holy fuck am I doing here? I’d been climbing the walls in Dad’s house, drowning in memories and dead-end calculations, when I remembered the flyer from The Bay: Later-in-life surf lessons, for women only. Forty-five and older.

The flyer didn’t mention Sadie Ireland would be the instructor, but here we are. What an unexpected perk.

My wetsuit clings too tightly to all the wrong places, like a second skin that knows all my secrets.

Sadie Ireland speaks, and just like that, she has everyone’s full attention.

That smile, that voice, the way she moves—some people really do make it look easy.

I’ve always known of the Irelands—they’re Clearwater Bay’s surfing royalty—but seeing Sadie now, I’m reminded that the universe doesn’t distribute charm and athleticism equally.

Some people just get more than their fair share.

I adjust the zipper at my back, wincing as it pinches.

A bead of sweat trickles between my shoulder blades despite the crisp evening air, and I watch the other women stretching and chatting as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

My surfboard lies beside me, its once-pristine surface now scuffed and dulled with age. Like owner, like board.

I’ve surfed before, in my teens. Dad thought it would loosen me up, make me think about something other than mathematics.

I hated it at first—the loss of control, the unpredictability—but then I found my footing, or more accurately, my balance on a wave.

For one brief, perfect moment, the world tilted in a way that made sense.

But that was a lifetime ago. Now I’m just old and rusty.

“Time to paddle out!” Sadie’s call breaks through my brooding.

The others cheer like we’re about to conquer the world. I force myself into the water, gritting my teeth as the cold shocks my ankles, climbs to my knees, races up my thighs. I try to remember this is supposed to be fun.

“You all right there?” Sadie’s voice floats toward me, light and warm—like it used to on TV.

“I’m fine,” I say, though my tone betrays the lie.

She paddles ahead, leaving me to wrestle with my board and my thoughts. The water’s colder than I remember, heavier somehow, as if it too knows how long I’ve been away. Each stroke feels clumsy, my body refusing to remember what it learned.

But then I catch a glimpse of the horizon—that endless stretch of blue that hasn’t changed since I left—and something inside me stirs.

Because I’m from here, the ocean has always had a way of putting things into perspective, of making everything else seem smaller.

For a moment, I forget about the wetsuit, the board, and the reason why I’m back in town.

The moment shatters when the wave hits.

It’s small but perfectly timed, and before I can react, I’m underwater. It’s not dramatic enough to make me lose my board, but when I surface, sputtering water, my dignity is nowhere to be found.

I expect laughter, maybe a snide remark, but instead there’s a cheer. Linda, the retired school principal, claps her hands in encouragement.

“You’ve got this,” she yells.

I have to believe she’s right, otherwise I might as well leave.

So, I climb back onto the board, dripping and humiliated but also a little bit lighter.

It’s strange. I’m no longer any good at this, but the failure doesn’t sting the way I thought it would.

Maybe that’s what happens when you’ve already failed at much bigger things.

Sadie flashes me a grin as I paddle past her. “Take your time. The ocean’s not going anywhere.”

Her words settle over me as I try to follow her advice and take my time. As though this isn’t just a desperate attempt to escape Dad’s empty house. As though there’s something here worth coming back to. Maybe there is.

I shake off the thought and focus on paddling, letting myself sink into the rhythm. For now, it’s enough to just move, for my body to do something other than sitting at a desk.

The next wave rises beneath me with deceptive gentleness. I paddle harder this time, Sadie’s words echoing in my head—the ocean isn’t going anywhere, and neither am I.

“Looking good!” Linda shouts, her enthusiasm contagious. “You’ve got the paddle down. Now you just need to trust your legs.”

My legs. Right. Trust them. As if they haven’t betrayed me in countless physical endeavors over the years, as if I haven’t spent the last two decades letting them get soft behind a desk.

Sadie’s voice carries from farther ahead, calm and steady. “Watch the crest, ladies. Feel the energy of the wave underneath you. When it starts to rise, that’s your moment. Don’t think, just go.”

Don’t think. As if that’s an option. My brain’s already running the numbers—curve of the wave, speed of the water, angle of approach.

There must be a formula for this. But out here, in the thick of it, all that theory dissolves.

The wave isn’t interested in logic. It’s already coming—fast, wild, and impossible to pin down.

I miss my timing and wobble on the board, arms flailing in a desperate bid against gravity. It doesn’t work and I go under again.

Another dunk, another round of cheers. This time, I let myself laugh. There’s something liberating about being this bad at something, about failing in front of strangers who seem determined to celebrate every disaster. Linda paddles closer, flashing a thumbs-up.

“Your wipeouts are getting more graceful,” she says with a wink.

“Oh good,” I reply, pushing wet curls from my face. “Maybe by the end of the lesson, I’ll master the art of falling.”

Their laughter carries over the waves, making me feel like I belong.

Sadie glides back toward me, balanced on her board with the kind of effortless grace that makes me both envious and oddly hopeful.

“You’re clearly overthinking it,” she says. “Surfing is about feeling. You have to let the wave guide you.”

I nod, though her words feel like an impossible request. Like trying to forget how to count. We paddle out together, and this time I try to focus on the rhythm instead of the variables. The water laps against my arms in a steady cadence as the horizon stretches endlessly before us.

Sadie signals for us to turn and wait for the next set. As I bob on the surface, my gaze drifts to shore. The lights from The Bay beach bar twinkle invitingly, casting a warm glow over the deck.

And then I see her.

Cass sits perched at one of the tables, her chef’s hat nowhere in sight. Even at this distance, there’s no mistaking that blond bob. She’s with two others and I can’t help but wonder whether I might know them.

“Estelle,” Sadie’s voice snaps me back. A wave is rising behind me. “Paddle!”

I throw myself into the motion, digging my arms into the water with every ounce of strength I have left. The wave catches me, and for a split second, I feel it—the lift, the rush, the undeniable pull of something bigger than myself.

I don’t stand. Not quite yet. But I ride the wave on my knees, grinning like a fool as I glide toward the shore.

It’s clumsy and far from perfect, but it’s progress.

As the wave fades beneath me, I glance toward the bar again.

Cass is still there, and she’s looking in my direction.

For a moment, I wonder if she saw me catch the wave, if she noticed my ungainly triumph.

By the time Sadie calls the lesson over, I feel every single one of my forty-nine years—and then some.

My arms ache with a bone-deep fatigue, my legs have turned to jelly, and there’s sand in places I don’t want to think about.

But I also feel different. As if the saltwater has rinsed away more than just the sweat of exertion.

We trudge toward the row of weathered changing cabins at the edge of the beach. Sadie still looks camera-ready, her wetsuit unzipped in that perfect I-didn’t-even-try way. The rest of us resemble a pack of bedraggled seals hauling our boards up the sand.

“Anyone else feel like their body might mutiny tomorrow morning?” Linda groans, tossing her towel onto the bench inside a cabin.

“All part of the fun,” Sadie calls back with a grin that makes it almost believable.

The cabins are small but functional, with hooks for wetsuits and just enough space to maneuver. I peel off my wetsuit carefully, grimacing as the tight neoprene clings stubbornly to my damp skin.

By the time I emerge in a loose pair of linen pants and a T-shirt that’s seen better days, most of the group has already gathered by the picnic tables near the cabins. The air smells of sunscreen and sea spray, carried in on the breeze that rolls off the water.

Sadie slings her board into the rack and wipes her hands on her towel. “All right, ladies,” she says. “Who’s up for post-surf drinks at The Bay?”

Everyone easily agrees, so I do too, ignoring the flutter of anticipation in my stomach.

We walk up the path from the beach, the group’s chatter light and buoyant, a shared sense of accomplishment buzzing among us. The Bay glows ahead, a beacon for tired limbs and parched throats.

Sadie waves toward the deck. “Looks like my sister’s already beat us to it.”

“It still feels strange seeing The Bay without Sam running the show,” Linda says, shaking her head.

“Sam traded bar life for babies and bedtime stories,” Sadie replies, earning a ripple of laughter.

As we draw closer, I can see Cass more clearly, leaning back slightly in her chair, one hand curled around a glass of white wine. The evening light does something to her—makes it impossible to look away.

“Let’s grab a seat,” Sadie says as we step onto the deck. “And have ourselves a well-earned drink.”

For some reason I’m not ready to examine, my heart hammers in my throat as I follow her.