Curled in the Bed of Love Read Free Page A

shorebirds poke methodically in the bay’s muck, a kingfisher or two flits from its perch toward the water and back again to watch patiently. Claire and Sam are reduced to the simplest talk:
There! That flash of red in the trees—did you see that egret strike?
When Claire sits before her window at home, pad of paper in hand, she feels the same peace. All that is required of her is receptivity, the same kind of patience the kingfishers employ.
    When they reach the rougher waters at the mouth of the bay, Claire and Sam pull out their oars and eat the lunch she has packed. Claire would turn back now, but Sam wants to leave the shelter of the bay and poke along the coast of the headlands.
    â€œThe surf is dangerous there,” Claire reminds him.
    â€œI know what I’m doing.”
    Again she gives in to him, reluctant to mar the accord of their bodies as they power the kayak through the water.
    As soon as they round Tomales Bluff, the waves become choppy, and the wind pelts them with gusts of fog. It’s harder now to work in rhythm with each other, the hollow kayak bucking on the waves. Claire shivers. They should have checked the weather prediction this morning. Russell consults the tide table when he and Claire are only walking out to the rocky coves where a fluke tide might trap trespassers. Sam says he’d like to go as far as BirdRock, which they can see in the distance, speckled with the dark bodies of cormorants. She turns to look at him. The waves punching at the boat, spraying his face and body, do not disturb him at all.
    She doesn’t want to count the number of times she and Sam drove back roads to find filthy, tiny bars where he would play pool and win no matter how he drank, teasing out the hostility of the locals in the same way he would flirt at parties until Claire betrayed annoyance, and then smile at her and deny intention. She doesn’t want to remember enjoying that curiosity of his even when, their night finally at an end, they were followed out to Sam’s car by the men who had been paying for his games all night.
    Closer to Bird Rock, the surf is devious, the waves slapping at the kayak from a dozen directions, making it impossible for Sam to steer an even course. A wave smacks the bow directly, washing over Claire, so heavy and quick that she inhales salt water.
    â€œI want to go back,” she says.
    â€œI think we can’t.” Sam shouts to be heard over the noise of the waves. “If we flip, lean in the direction of the roll, and we’ll come back up.”
    She feels fear again, this companion of her wisdom, her painfully acquired care for her own survival.
    Sam says, “We’ll have to let the current take us past the rock. Once we get by, the water should be more predictable. We can head further out and circle back.”
    Now in the choppy rise and fall of the waves, the kayak clunks on its way down, smacks an air pocket before reentering the sea. Claire can no longer keep her paddle in the water; the torqued pounding of the waves would take it from her.
    A wave smacks them broadside, and the kayak flips. Plunged into the cold, roiling water, Claire wants to fight free of the boat, free of the churning fists around her. But she leans, as Sam instructed, holding her breath until the kayak bobbles upright again to be slammed by another wave.
    Sam praises Claire for hanging on to the paddle she didn’t remember she had in her hands, urges her to stroke right, right, now left. She’s so cold, her wet clothes so heavy and grasping against her skin. But Sam gets the kayak out past the breakers into deeper water, where they finally steer themselves toward safety.
    Claire does not speak until they have rounded Tomales Point and returned to the predictable waters of the bay. “You knew what we were heading into. Your big ego. You just had to push your limits and see if you’d win the roll of the dice again.”
    â€œI didn’t