He was surfing, a glistening streak of bronzed sinew cutting through the crystalline white and blue. I stood rooted to the sand, toes curled in the hot grains watching him slice the sea. At the tender age of 18 my mouth hung open in a gauche display of gangly teenaged lust. I barely felt my friend's bony elbow dig into my side as we both watched him step from the surf like some kind of ancient god come to life.
He flashed us a brilliant smile laced with mischief and candor before coming to stop in front of us. Dropping his purple surfboard at our feet he laughed and struck up a conversation. I no longer remember what we talked about or for how long but I remember every line of his face. Every curve and twist of his body. Every strand of hair of his head.
He spent the day with us showing us the sights and sounds and smells of his home, his Kona-town. And when my friend slipped into our hotel room in the early evening cursed with a sunburn in need of aloe, I spent the evening with him. Dinner and a walk on the sand under a full luxiourus moon blessed me for the next 15 years of solitude.