T Minus 5 Years
I caught him glancing from under his flat bill. I was in my backyard, working simultaneously on my computer and my tan. He was chatting with my neighbor. Each time I lifted my eyes from the screen, I could see him looking at me. His gaze would dart back to the ground. He had that signature SoCal, surfer, bad-boy look: tattoo sleeves, Dickies shorts, skate shoes, hometown t-shirt. His friend, my neighbor, was in his 50’s and the bad-boy looked maybe ten years younger. “Too old for me,” I thought, and kept working.
That afternoon, I paddled out for my second session of the day at the crappy little beach break 100 yards in front of my 300 square foot beachfront shack. I was just learning to stand up on a surfboard. At that time I was experiencing my first taste of getting bit by the surf bug. The waves were small but the wind was whipping. I still hadn’t figured out how to read the rip current, so I struggled to paddle out for 20 minutes. Without ever making it out, completely defeated, I called it a day and headed back for the beach. I saw my neighbor and the handsome tattoo bad boy walking toward me, carrying longboards.
“Kurt, Melanie. Melanie, Kurt.” My neighbor made the introduction.
“Howsitgoin?”
I was instantly struck by his deeply humble energy.
Kurt’s clear, water blue eyes pierced me for a moment before he glanced back down to the sand.
The guys invited me to paddle out with them. They showed me the easy way out and how to time the sets. We chatted a bit between waves. I asked Kurt what gym he went to; he had massive arms and a barrel for a chest. He said he just surfed a lot. It showed. Classic SoCal, retro style longboarding. Kurt’s six feet and 200 muscled pounds practically danced to the nose, swept the board around sections and made the 2 foot slop we were surfing look like glass.
I, on the other hand, struggled to catch a wave. When I finally did, the nose of my board went straight down and I tumbled end over end. Kurt told me that was called a “pearl” and he said I was pretty fearless. He stayed by me on the smaller of the two peaks for the duration of the session. I told him he could paddle over to where “The Big Boys are surfing,” but he said he prefered to surf with me. When I told him I was tired, he caught a wave in with me.
The two of us walked back to my beach shack to hose off the salt water. Kurt and I exchanged numbers. “Let’s surf tomorrow.” I still thought I was too young for him. But that salt and pepper gray hair had me all sorts of hot and bothered.
He texted me within an hour. “There’s a new surf movie on Netflix I want to see. Dinner at the Noodle House and movie later?” Oh oh, that sounded like a date. I had just gotten out of a year long relationship less than three weeks before. And before that I was married and still ugly. I was far from the end of my male attention binge, not yet satiated, not yet ready to be tied to one person. And he was too old for me, right? But Kurt’s attention tasted good. What the heck, I thought. “Sure, sounds fun.”
Later that night, sitting at the Ocean Beach Noodle House, I ordered a hot saki and Kurt ordered a Coke.
“You don’t drink?” I was shocked.
“No, I haven’t drank in three and a half years.”
“That’s weird” I said. He explained to me that he had become sober several years ago, after ending a 20 year battle with methamphetamine. Oh, a man with issues, I can be of use! My interest piqued.
“The desire is completely gone. I don’t mind if you drink in front of me. There’s no way in hell I’m ever going back. It’s like the old has gone and the new has come.”
My ears perked up at his quoting the the Book of Revelations.
“Are you religious?” I asked.
“I believe a higher power has saved my life. I have a daily reprieve from my disease, contingent on the maintenance of my spiritual condition.”
Each word increased his sex appeal. I didn’t know he was quoting the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. All I knew was that a man was buying me dinner, a man who had his shit together and valued spiritual growth. And that was hot.
It turned out Kurt lived a 2 minute skateboard ride from me. We surfed together every day for a month. We frequently cooked dinner together and would spend hours driving around San Diego, checking waves all over the county. When I needed a new surfboard, Kurt took me to his shaper and paid for a custom board to be made for me. When I needed a new wetsuit, Kurt took me to the surf shop and bought one for me that fit properly.
“I want to get you to some uncrowded waves.” Kurt said to me one day. “You need to surf a point break where you don’t have to deal with getting smashed by incoming waves all the time.” He was in between job sites and had swung by for a quick lunch with me before going back to work. He took out a napkin and a pen and drew a diagram of a point break. “The wave breaks perpendicular to the shore, see, so you never have to take any sets on the head. Have you ever been to Baja?”
“Mexico? Isn’t that super dangerous?”
“I grew up going there all the time. My Dad and my friends’ Dads used to take us. There is a place about four hours south of the border where you can get a lot of wave time. It’s a perfect right hand point break. I want to take you.”
The trip to Baja happened a few days later, with the next swell. My heart pounded as we crossed the Mexican border! For the next three nights, I knew we would be cooking over a fire and sleeping in the back of his pickup truck under the stars. The drive along the plummeting coastline was breathtaking, the conversation riveting. Kurt told me in detail about the 20 year battle he had fought with addiction. He told me about stealing money from his Mom’s purse, sleeping in his truck with no place else to go, getting high in the bedroom while he babysat his girlfriend’s kids, going to every rehabilitation center in Southern California and some out of state too.
Finally I asked, “Who is that guy you are describing? That is nothing like the Kurt I know.” His response seemed silly at the time.
“He’s a monster. If I ever relapse, promise me right now that you will leave me. It won’t be quick and it won’t be easy. I would never want to put you through that. Promise me: if I ever relapse, you will leave me!”
I promised I would. And he promised it wouldn’t come to that.
For the rest of that summer, the trips continued. To Baja, to mainland Mexico and to Michigan to meet my family. Every fall my parents threw a big harvest party, complete with square dancing, a potluck and hot apple cider. All of my relatives and most of the members at my parents’ church would be there. I invited Kurt to come along, but warned him it would be a little different than a typical San Diego family gathering. He was excited to meet my family. I called my Mom and informed her that I was bringing a friend. I warned her that he was a little older and that he had a very distinct SoCal look. Her exact words I will never forget: “Oh Melanie, he’s not another fixer-upper is he?” Mom knew me very well.
“No way, Mom. This guy really has his life together. I think you and Dad are going to like him!”
Kurt had special ordered a Michigan State University flat bill hat to honor my parents’ alma mater. He wore it to meet not only my parents, but my siblings, their kids, my aunts and uncles on both sides, my cousins and most of the congregation from the church. Kurt and my Dad hit it off, right away. Kurt’s humility, mild manners and lack of ego shined even brighter than his colorful tattoo sleeves. My sister-in-law remarked that she had never seen a man look at a woman with so much love, the way Kurt looked at me. I saw that love in his face when, mid square dance, post do si so and pre left allemande, he grabbed my hand for a quick “spin your partner round and round”. I caught his eye underneath the cowboy hat he had borrowed from my brother. I asked, “Are you okay? I know my family is kinda different.”
His face lit up, “This is awesome!”
For the next year and a half we were inseparable. Surfing, camping, snowboarding, bike riding; we spent every spare minute together. When my lease was up, we found an apartment together. I didn’t want to lie to my parents about where I was living, so I flew home to Michigan to tell them in person that Kurt and I had moved in together.
I might as well have told them I was a prostitute and addicted to heroin. All sorts of Bible quoting and shaming ensued, followed by six months of absolute silence. Even though they loved Kurt, the Bible forbids couples living together before marriage. My Mom didn’t call text or email me for six months. I don’t remember trying too hard to reach out to her either. Eventually, we missed each other enough to communicate, although we never spoke of my living arrangement again.
Typically for a couple newly living together, new issues emerged in our relationship. In the beginning, Kurt bought me flowers weekly, complimented my body and couldn’t keep his hands off of me. As we became more comfortable with each other, these acts stopped. But I kept needing the attention.
Just before I quit my corporate job, I cashed in on some vacation time, airline miles and hotel points, and booked us a trip to Hawaii. As surfers, we were ecstatic to visit the mecca of surfing, the North Shore of Oahu. Sitting on the plane, I leaned over to Kurt and told him there was something important I want to talk about. I’d been going to therapy. My therapist had stressed the importance of actually saying the things that make me feel like I’m choking. I had been feeling this awful tension in my chest for a couple of weeks. Finally, on the plane, I decided it was time to just speak.
I told Kurt I had been feeling more like a roommate recently. I told him I didn’t feel significant to him. I told him I needed a little more affection. He said he hadn’t noticed anything and apologized. He asked if we could talk about something else and just enjoy the vacation. I didn’t mention it again.
Two days later, standing in the rain on a beach in Hawaii, Kurt pressed a small box into my hand. Cracking it open, I hoped I was wrong about what I thought might be inside. I knew I wanted to be with Kurt for the foreseeable future but, having already been married once, I really wasn’t in a hurry to do it again. Plus, we had been having some new issues since moving in together.
The box held a diamond ring. When Kurt asked those four words, tension gripped my chest, competing with genuine happiness and excitement. I said yes. I loved the idea that Kurt valued me so much that he wanted to make me his forever. At the same time, in the back of my mind, I hoped we’d be engaged for the next ten years and never actually bother with the wedding part.
We called my parents to tell them we were engaged. I was shocked when they were elated. To their minds, Kurt was finally going to make an honest woman of me after we had been “shacking up” for months. My parents suggested we get married ASAP. In fact, “Why not just do it while you are there in Hawaii?” they pushed.
The idea wasn’t a bad one. We were, after all, trying to start a business, and weddings are expensive. So I bought a white bikini, and eight days later we eloped on Sunset Beach on the North Shore of Oahu. We exchanged leis, kissed and posed for the camera. It was beautiful, the ocean a spectrum of greens and turquoise, the sky a spectrum of reds and purples, his water blue eyes locked on mine. I am Mrs. Kurt Williams.
That night, my only source of guilt was our post-wedding steak dinner and chocolate cake. I could at last enjoy guilt-free sex.
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*some names have been changed to protect privacy
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