The Bubblegum Motto ✓

-7-

This was the first time I found myself sitting on the beach alone, a sea of sand surrounding me and my eyes narrowed in on one person specifically: Nixon Park. Ian had given me a break off my shift, though I knew he had been very lenient with me recently. Actually, scratch that. He had been quite pushy recently, but not in the way that benefitted him. Whenever Nixon entered the door with a proposal to run off somewhere, I would refuse with the one excuse that I had to help Ian tend to the shop. Then, Ian would say that one man was enough for the job and after that, he would shove me towards Nixon, looking exceptionally eager to get rid of me.

So naturally, I suspected that Ian wanted to spend as little time as possible with me, seeing as I was still paid for less work than I'm supposed to be paid for. However, I was grateful for this experience. Because I had hardly ever came out of the store, I barely knew what the beach atmosphere was like when it wasn't during a sunset.

Due to the fact that it was summer, the beach was filled, especially since it was the only beach in the town. Umbrellas were set up in the sand, and there were a multitude of different people, starting with people laying out in the sun, hoping to burn up their skin and make it tanner to those who were splashing around in the water, enjoying their time in the coolness, which was a stark contrast to the heat on the beach.

The sand was scorching, but I never really had a problem with the heat, so I found that I was doing alright. I had exchanged my sneakers for sandals, and those shoes were currently sitting next to me while my feet were nowhere to be found.

I inhaled sharply, accepting the ocean breeze that kept ruffling my already tied up hair. My hair had been loose, falling further than my shoulders, but with a few breezes that decided to attack me, I decided it was safer to have it pulled up.

But the whole point for me to be sitting in sand I wasn't fond of and heat that—although I had tolerance for—was not in any way pleasurable was to observe how Nixon reacted with his pupils. I think this would be considered borderline stalker-ish if it weren't for the fact that Nixon and I had gotten along relatively well for the time that we've known each other. Although we weren't besties tying each other's hair at slumber parties and knowing each other secrets like the back of our hands, we still found comfort in each other's presence, and I would like to believe that we were pretty good in the friendship aspect. At least, I considered him my friend.

Being friends is just a mutual thing, so we never really discussed it.

Nixon was currently teaching a student with a surfboard on the beach and not in the water, which led me to conclude that this student might've been new. Nixon had his own surfboard—a nice, simple black one—under his feet, showing the correct stance to his pupil.

It was interesting to watch Nixon work because he seemed mature in a way that I didn't recognize, especially since he wasn't teaching me. Most of the time I've spent with him, he was arguing like a little baby—immaturity at its finest—but here on the beach, where he was spending his time teaching his hobby, I saw him in a completely other new light.

That was because Nixon was probably the most patient teacher I had ever seen. He always shot his student a look of encouragement, adjusting his posture and demonstrating the correct stance. Whenever the pupil felt frustrated, Nixon would hold him by the shoulders, look him in the eyes, and told him with a firm voice that he could do it. And maybe that sounded a little cheesy and stupid, but it worked better than most people might think. The student's eyes lit up with newfound determination, ready to master the art of surfing and ride the waves like an expert.

Again and again, Nixon would adjust, show, and encourage, his patience never faltering and his motivation always playing at his lips. He would use his words to explain all the risks of surfing the waves and what they have to watch out for.