The Kite Beach – Part 2: Standing Up

On her last morning, the wind was perfect.

Isabel stood waist-deep in the cold, bright water with the board strapped to her feet and the kite high above, tugging. Karim waded beside her. "Ready?"

"No."

"Good. Go."

She leaned back. The kite surged. The board lifted, caught, and she shot forward across the bay, spray flying, wind roaring in her ears. Gulls scattered. The old fortress walls flashed gold in the morning sun. For one long, impossible minute, she was flying.

She crashed spectacularly, of course. When she surfaced, spluttering, Karim was already there, laughing and cheering.

"You rode! You rode the whole bay!"

"I rode the bay!"

They waded in together, wind-whipped and soaked, and collapsed on the warm sand. The kite settled like a tired red bird. Isabel lay on her back, grinning at the sky.

"Thank you," she said. "That was..."

"Yes."

"I'm flying home tonight."

"I know." Karim propped himself on an elbow. His curls were full of salt. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Will you come back?"

"I'd like to. If there's a reason."

"I can be a reason." His voice was low. "May I kiss you, Isabel?"

"Yes," she said. "And if I say stop, you must pull me off the board by the lines."

"That is not a punishment. That is every lesson."

She laughed, and he kissed her, gently, salt-wet fingers cupping her face. She tasted the sea. His lips were warm in the cold wind. She kissed him back, slow and deep, while the surf hissed up the sand.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Isabel. "Very green."

In April she came back, with her own helmet. He had saved her the red kite.

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