You spend as much time as you can at the beach. The smell of the salt water in the air and the sun beating down on your skin is addicting. So, every morning, you walk seven blocks to the beach in your flip-flops and sunglasses to lie on the beach.

This morning you lie out on your sun-bleached towel and people watch. You know mostly everyone in Amity and mostly everyone in Amity knows you. Particularly, you know Sam Quint. Over the years you developed a childish fondness of the man. Maybe he is the reason you spend your mornings at the beach, to watch him shirt off and skin glistening on his father’s boat.

You sit two seats behind plus another seat to the right of him in biology, but right now school is out, so you can’t stare at the back of his head anymore. This morning as you walk past the docks you don’t see Sam or even the boat, so you assume he went fishing. When you reach the beach you want to die. You want to dig a hole in the sand, right where you stand, and bury yourself alive.

Sam Quint, waxing his surfboard with flames on the tail. Today is a good day to people watch. When you finally go home, you chalk the encounter up to a fluke and move on. Sure, it was nice drooling over Sam while he was chopping up the waves, but it would never happen again.

Fortunately for you, he is back the next morning, and the next, and the next. Boy is he a kick-ass surfer. After two and a half weeks of the same routine, you swallow your pride.

You march over to him as he is taking a break, “teach me to surf?”

A smile spreads across his face like you’ve told him he won the lottery. He spends weeks teaching you before you can confidently get on your board.

“Go try’n get this one,” he urges you to try the wave that quickly approaches.

When you gain your balance you get that rush he tells you about. You reach the surface after wiping out and hear Sam shouting encouragement.

“That was it! You did it, you did that!”

Like always, he walks you home and says you can make it up to him by treating him to a banana split.