She corners me with a furry in her eyes that burns "Tell me griffin, what game are you playing at?" When I don't answer it only angers her more and she huffs out the rest "whatever game it is, I want no part. I have no time to play with boys, I don'...
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Life's hand is not soft, life's hand is a calloused and livid hand. I have learned from experience that staying in a heated environment gets you burned, and like water on a hot stove you will bubble over. Sort of like the sun in a way but I choose to soak in the burn from the sun with a smile.
That's why I am 3,518 miles away from my hometown in Texas hiding away on the coasts of Honolulu Hawaii. The thought of staying back home burns me from the inside out. I left well over 2 years ago and I have never looked back. We are doing well, living in an beautiful and small apartment along the waterside. The only way I managed to get this apartment was because I promised the landlord, a very kind old women named Lucy that I would teach surfing lessons at the surf shop her son owns 5 days a week as payment until I could get fully on my feet.
Speaking of, I am almost late to teach said lessons because Mateo will not let go of my leg as I drop him off with Mia, a lovely woman who has been so kind to watch Mateo since I can not afford daycare while I go to school and work.
"Mateo" I squat down in front of my 2 year old son and put a gentle hand on his face so his big green eyes will face me "mama needs you to go enjoy your day with Mia and Malik while I go to work." I look my son in the eyes and pray that today will go easy. My son has always been not much of a crier but everyone has their bad days and I just hope today isn't one.
With a little sniffle he releases my leg and attaches himself to my neck to give one final squeeze and says "I love you mama" with proud dictation. My son continues to amaze me with every milestone. I feel like all mothers say it but I swear Mateo is a prodigy. He has reached every milestone yards ahead of any "first time parent books" I have read.
With a final thank you to Mia and a kiss on the cheek to my boy I make my way back to my ancient Ford F-250 and head out to the beach leaving the view of Mia holding Mateo blowing me a kiss in the yard of her beautiful Bungalow home with a white porch, in my rear view mirror.
Traffic is surprisingly light and I make it there five minutes after 10am. Some of my kids are excitedly running around the beach while the rest are holding on to their surfboards with a death grip. Today is the first lesson of the new season. I have coached 7 seasons since being here and I wouldn't trade it for the world.
As I walk up to the beach I am swarmed by kids exploding with excitement and nerves to get started. Before hell breaks lose, I sit everyone down on their boards to stretch while I address the parents to collect safety waivers and hand out a series of papers for them to review and sign for the competitive season and gear expenses for the older kids.
As the parents filter away I get the kids up on their feet. From the corner of my eye I catch some parents straggling and taking photos of their kids, I smile to myself and feel a stitch in my chest at the same time. Shaking my head clear of the past, I focus entirely on getting these kids comfortable.
The hour goes by fast, we started with the rules which might I add these kids moaned and groaned about and I swear I saw a few of them slyly tip toeing towards the water. After that we warmed up in the water and did a few team building activities to get them feeling safe and comfortable. Once they were comfortable, I taught them basic board techniques which took quite a while and before I knew it the hour was over and I was waving off my last few kids watching parents roll out of the lot with tired sandy kids.
It's nearing 11:30 when I finally leave the beach, my first class of the day is at 12 so I don't have time to go home and shower so I rinse off at the beach showers, throw my board into the back of my truck, throw my curly mess of hair into a bun, and head over to the college.
