Page 40 of Winging It with You

Water sloshes everywhere as the first wave of contestants rushes into the shallow water, trailing their paddleboards behind them.

The first seabed is probably only fifteen feet offshore, so Asher gets to it in no time.

I watch him loop the rope attached to his paddleboard around one side of the seabed now in front of him, something I hadn’t even thought to do.

Arthur and the other camera operators, dressed in matching black waders, follow at a safe distance as they each begin to cut the seaweed.

I had originally assumed the actual harvesting would be a simple task, considering the thin texture of the seaweed.

But Ellie, for example, keeps glancing over her shoulder at Jenn, who’s fidgeting on the beach, clearly aware that her daughter is struggling with her shears.

Jackson, on the other hand, appears to have given up on his shears altogether and has resorted to removing the seaweed by the handful.

But Asher—to my, well…not to my surprise, because that makes me sound like I’ve underestimated him, and Asher Bennett is not someone I would dare to underestimate—appears to be more than halfway done with the task at hand.

Jackson finishes first, followed by Asher, who quickly pulls his loaded paddleboard behind him. They reach the shore around the same time, ready to get this seaweed hung so that we can advance to seabed two.

“Nice job, Ash. You really are Scuba Steve,” I tease when our eyes meet. Arthur cracks a smile behind his camera in my peripheral vision.

“Help me pick this up,” he says, practically ignoring me as he bends down to grab one end of the paddleboard. Seems like the fire’s back. “One, two, three…”

We lift the paddleboard together, ensuring none of the slimy seaweed tips off as we carry it over to the drying rack.

“Okay, hear me out,” he says, kneeling down after we’ve set the paddleboard at the base of the rack.

“I cut all this intentionally, hoping it would make the hanging process easier.” He picks up a clump of seaweed from the pile.

“See how this stem is here?” he asks, pointing to the wishbone shape of the seaweed he’s holding.

“I cut farther down so we can use this almost as a hook.” Asher hangs the seaweed with ease.

“You’re a genius,” I say, grabbing his face to kiss his salty lips, completely taking him—and myself—by surprise. I’m genuinely in awe of the man before me—the way his mind works and how he thought ahead like this.

“Quit stalling and get to work, Fernandez,” he says. A wave of red pools behind his cheeks as he grabs a handful of seaweed to start hanging it. “But I’m glad you’re finally noticing.”

The two of us work quickly side by side. Asher was right. The way each chunk has been cut definitely makes the hanging easier. I’m trying to not let my eyes wander to how our competition is doing, but I can see them struggling to get the seaweed to stay in place out of the corner of my eye.

Our pile rapidly dwindles, and it seems it’s now Asher’s turn to give the pep talk.

“When you get to the seabed, I’d recommend opening the shears all the way like this,” he says, spreading the shears as wide as they can open.

“And instead of cutting the seaweed, I found it was much easier to slice it like you would a ribbon or a banana.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” I say, hanging the final piece of seaweed on the rack. Bianca is already heading out and it looks like Jenn might be ready to take off on her heels. “Ready?”

“Let’s do it.”

We hurriedly shuffle through the hot sand, carrying the empty paddleboard to our starting point. Asher hands over the shears as soon as we set the board down in the water.

“Hey, don’t forget,” he whispers, stopping me with his hand on my arm. “Go deep and slice,” he says, and repeats the movement with the shears. As I head out into the cool water, a smile forms on Asher’s face—one that a small part of me would like to outline with the tip of my tongue.

Rather than trailing the paddleboard behind me, like I watched Jenn struggle to do once she reached the slightly deeper water, I hop on top of it, placing the shears directly under my chest, and paddle out like one would on a surfboard.

I quickly close the distance between me and Bianca, who is about to reach her second seabed. The water is just above my waist once I reach mine, and I remind myself to tie my paddleboard to the side of the bed as Asher had done.

There are four rows of seaweed growing within the bed, so it makes sense to work one row at a time to make sure I don’t leave any harvestable seaweed behind. Reaching down, I find the hooklike spot as Ash indicated, make my first slice, and place the first bunch of seaweed on my paddleboard.

It’s repetitive work: slice, place on the paddleboard, repeat.

But a sense of calm washes over me with each ebb of the ocean—a first for any challenge I’ve been a part of.

Being directly immersed in an activity like this, one that is tied so closely to the livelihood of countless individuals and their families, I can’t help but feel deeply appreciative to play a small part in it.

This whole experience, seeing so many corners of the world from such a different lens, has fulfilled me in a way I wasn’t quite expecting.

Traveling has always been some form of work for me, whether in my active duty or civilian life. But until now I’ve never felt like I’ve connected with the world around me in such a meaningful way.

Before I know it, I’m almost done with my seabed, and seemingly ahead of everyone else, even Bianca. I scan the rows to ensure I’ve harvested each piece before turning my paddleboard back toward the shore, half walking, half running with the waves at my back.

Asher greets me with another smile, which sends the butterflies I’ve been failing to ignore for weeks into overdrive. “My little trick worked, huh?”

“Like a charm,” I say, making him beam, so I’m forced to dig my feet into the sand to prevent myself from launching at him.

We haul the board back over to the drying rack, invigorated by the small lead we seem to have over the rest of the competition, and work in silent tandem, quickly hanging this next batch and shuffling back toward the water for Asher’s second turn.

Arthur hangs back this time. I can only imagine how repetitive this all must come across on camera, so instead, he appears to be capturing some close-ups of the neat rows of drying seaweed along the beach.

“You boys seem to be getting on better these days,” he murmurs from behind the lens. “More in sync.”

I smile, remembering the epic chaos of the first challenge when Ash and I thought we’d been communicating.

“We’re trying,” I say, though Arthur’s attention seems to be on a small crab that’s made an appearance amid all the commotion.

How foolish we’d been, thinking two literal strangers could just dive headfirst into being lovestruck boyfriends without there being any hiccups.

At least I don’t have to pretend the lovestruck part anymore.

I ignore the way that thought twists my stomach into knots.

Looking to Asher in the ocean, he is, and I think will always be, the first in a crowd to catch my eye. He’s kind of a mess with his moppy hair slicked in every which way as he collects the last of his seaweed, and his poor glasses are covered in water droplets.

But damn it, he’s my mess. The thought of Asher being mine cracks my chest wide open. This could be it. The moment everyone always talks about. It scares the hell out of me, but he’s mine for however long he wants to be.

With anyone else, self-preservation might kick in.

But Asher? He just might be worth the risk.

“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” he pants, dragging the paddleboard onto the sand.

“There’s a very real possibility you were a seaweed farmer in another life,” I tease, bending over to help him once again as we make our way back to the racks.

“You know what? I wouldn’t hate that,” he says, fighting a smirk but losing.

Back and forth we go, quickly hanging row after row of seaweed for the third time and hoping that if we move fast enough, we’ll be able to widen the small lead we seem to have.

“I know it’s probably bad karma to say something like this,” Asher says, both hands full. “But we might actually finish first for once!” Excitement fills his voice and flashes behind his eyes.

Well, shit. Now we have to win.

Asher hangs the last of his haul up, and I grab the paddleboard, hoisting it over my head with both hands, and do my best to sprint across the beach.

“Theo, wait, don’t you need…” Asher shouts after me but his voice gets lost in the waves the second I reach the shore.

I launch back into the cool water with the shears secured under my chest one last time and, knowing this lead won’t last forever, swim as fast as I can to the farthest remaining seabed.

The water is definitely over my head when I reach it, meaning I’ll have to completely tread water to finish this challenge.

Bianca gets to her seabed moments after I get to mine.

As I start making my first round of cuts, I notice just how rough the waves are this far out.

I’ve swallowed more salt water this round than I’d care to in a lifetime, but I keep at it, alternating between slicing the stems of the seaweed and plopping the clumps onto the paddleboard.

My lungs are screaming in protest and my legs are one tread away from cramping.

I need a break, even just a tiny one. I glance over at Bianca and see that she still has a significant amount of seaweed to cut, so I let myself hold on to the side of the seabed, allowing my legs to dangle for a moment.

I take a much-needed deep breath. And then a few more. And when I feel like I can finish this damn thing, I make another round of cuts. But as I go to place the clump I’m holding on my paddleboard, my hand smacks down on the water.

“What the hell?” I turn and realize my board has somehow come loose from where I tied it and is now floating farther and farther away from me out into open water. “Shit!” I yell.

Placing the shears safely in the floating seabed, I dive off after our paddleboard, swimming against the force of the waves with whatever strength I have left.

It seems that the harder I swim, the more distance is put between me and our seaweed-loaded paddleboard, but finally, after what feels like an exhausting eternity, my fingertips make contact with its edge, and I’m able to awkwardly turn it back to our nearly finished seabed.

But when I get there, panting and exhausted and vowing never to go near an ocean for the rest of my life, I see that Bianca isn’t at hers anymore. Instead, she’s already back on the shore hanging her final batch of seaweed with Jackson.

It’s over.

I slap my hands hard against the water, ignoring the spray of the salt water in my eyes. There’s no point in rushing now. The competition was intended to be the first to finish, and since Jackson and Bianca secured that title, I give myself permission to catch my breath paddling back to shore.

Asher and Jo meet me at the water’s edge with sympathetic smiles.

“Why didn’t you tie the paddleboard to the edge like before?” Arthur asks when he joins us, his camera still raised to his face.

“I definitely did.”

Asher hands me a bottle of cold water to help rid my mouth of the salty taste. He bends down and looks at our paddleboard’s tie. “It’s been cut,” he says, holding up the rope, which indeed has been severed.

We all look at Bianca, who’s now sandwiched between Dalton and Jackson as they capture whatever victory footage is needed for the day’s challenge. She makes sure to turn in our direction with a shrug, her infamous oh-so-pleased-with-herself smirk growing wider by the second.