Enemies Abroad

Beachgoers perform a mass exodus. The kids are squealing, laughing, complaining as they try to find any cover they can.

“Don’t stand under the umbrellas!” I warn, worried the metal will attract lightning. That’s how it works, right? Who knows—I teach English, not science. I’d rather be safe than sorry though.

It’s pure chaos.

How did we manage to bring so much stuff!?

The beach toys are spread out everywhere. Towels and snacks and phones and books and everyone runs around trying to pick up anything they can get their hands on. My arms are laden with sopping-wet towels as we start to make a mad dash back to where the vans and car are parked. It didn’t seem like all that long of a walk when we got here, but now it’s somehow morphed into miles.

“Come on!” Noah shouts to everyone. “We’re almost there.”

At the vans, each chaperone is counting heads, trying to confirm we have everyone.

“We’re missing Lee and Chris!” I shout to Noah.

He curses under his breath and runs back to the beach. I go with him, worried we might have lost them. Oh crap. Oh crap. There! Lee and Chris are helping an elderly couple fold up their chairs and pull up the umbrella they brought down to the beach with them. Noah rushes down to help speed things along.

All the while, the rain doesn’t let up.

It’s coming down so hard, so fast it’s almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front of me. The sand turns to mud. My feet sink in and I lose a flip-flop. I growl and turn back, freeing it with a hard yank.

When we finally make it back to the parking lot, everyone’s still loading up into the vans. There’s a problem because we have coolers and overstuffed bags filled with snacks and beach balls and towels and boogie boards. Everything’s been packed up haphazardly so it doesn’t fit properly in the trunk space. Lorenzo is doing most of the heavy lifting, but I don’t want to leave him with everything, so I grab whatever I can. We’re nearly done. I’m struggling with one of the last bags when Noah comes up behind me and takes it, lifting it up and over my head.

“Go get in the car. You’re getting soaked.”

I blink quickly, trying to clear my vision, but it’s useless. Rain comes down in sheets. “Are all the kids accounted for?”

He nods. “They’re mixed up in the two vans, but they’re all in there.”

“Have you seen Gabriella? She rode here with me.”

“She’s in the first van. I’m riding back with you.”

What?! No!

Booming thunder interrupts my thoughts. My puny little yelp is impossible to play off.

“Go get in the car, Audrey,” Noah says again, this time with less patience than before.

There’s no point in arguing. Now’s definitely not the time. I run for the car, squeeze myself into the driver’s seat, and drop my soaked bag onto my lap.

I take stock of the situation.

Everything on me and everything in my possession is drenched, save for the plastic bag that contains my passport and license. I confirm they’re both still bone dry (thank god) and then I root around in my bag for anything that might help me dry off. Let’s see…there’s a wet crossword book. A wet granola bar. A wet pair of sunglasses. My towel is with everyone else’s in the back of one of the vans, not that it would even matter. They’re as soaked as everything else we have.

The passenger side door opens and Noah tries to fold himself down into the seat. He is too much man for this tiny car. I swear he might not fit. It’d be comical if not for the dire situation we’ve found ourselves in. The longer it takes him to get inside, the more rain pelts into the car.

“Jesus, does this chair move back?”

He pulls a lever and it scoots back a paltry inch. A laugh bursts out of me before I can help it.

“I swear to god,” he groans.

He shoves his shoulders through the doorframe and then shifts so he can tuck his knees up close to his chest. He looks over at me, I look at him. My mouth twitches first, and I fight it, but then we both just start laughing. Big, heaving, tears spring up in the corners of our eyes.

I let my head hit the steering wheel, and the Fiat lets out this pathetic little toot that only makes us laugh harder.

“The next two hours are going to be horrific for you,” I tell him. “I could barely drive this thing in the best of conditions.”

“Right, well, it’s not like I have a choice. I can’t fit in that seat with the steering wheel, so you have to drive. And the vans are leaving, by the way. There’s no point in trying to stick with them. It’s going to be a nightmare driving in this. You’ll have shit visibility.”