10 of September: The Day He Taught Her to Swim

The day before Ziad texted, “You should definitely come to Sour. We’re making space cakes.”

Genevieve did not need a space cake to convince her to go, though. If Nabil and Ziad were going to be there, she was in. Within two weeks she had already grown to love these characters. Nabil was the best of Sami and Marc combined, and Ziad— well we’ll let the 10 of September speak for itself.

As Genevieve bounced down the stairs to Armenia Street to meet the boys, Ziad and another driver were in middle of some good-old Beirut road bickering. But after a few sarcastic jabs at the other driver, Ziad turned to Genevieve with a smile and hello, then turned to his iPod and hit play. Grins wide, they were off to the beach.

A few puffs and a magical drive later, Nabil, Ziad and Genevieve were on the hot sand discussing the ever-so-important configuration of the mats and towels that would be their oasis for the next 7 hours.

“Guys, don’t you think we should move the mats the other way?”

“Yeah, but the sun is going to move in that direction.”

“Exactly— which is why we should move the mats so that we can maximize everyone’s ability to see the ocean and get the right tans.”

“I get you, but aren’t there a few others coming? Shouldn’t we make more space for everyone to be able to face the sun?”

“Yes. That’s what I’m saying. So, we should move the mats 90 degrees to get more length on this side.”

“Wouldn’t we want to put them side by side?”

“Ok, let’s try it your way and see.”

“No, let’s do it your way.”

“No, no. Let’s see what it would be like your way.”

“No. You’re right. Besides, I’m too lazy to move it back again.”

“Nabil, how are you going to maximize coverage with your umbrella?”

“No need, it’s just for one person. Me.” What a guy. What. A. Guy.

“Yala.”

Perfect timing, Ivana sauntered over with cold Almazas in hand. It would not be long before Dani and Ayman would show up. Dani was master patissier for today’s Hajj festivities. He would be bringing a space cake made to near perfection— moist, not too crumbly with the right amount of hash.

“Genevieve, I think it’s story time.”

Inhale “… a few miles in I’m feeling pretty good, so I aim for 6 miles. Then after 6 miles goes by, I start to think, hell, why not 10? You’ve ran 10 before. By the time I get to 10, I’m in a rhythm. The zone. If the first 10 miles weren’t tiring, why not just keep going, I thought I’m gonna finish this. And with that, the race began. I was committed to finishing the marathon. 10 miles down, 16 to go— even though I started to feel something funny in my right ankle. When I got to mile 19 the funny turned into an annoyance, and at about mile 22 annoyance grew into pain. There was obviously something wrong with my ankle, but there was no way I was stopping short of 4 miles from the finish line. Through the pain I told myself, ‘Keep going for one more mile.’ Then mile 23 came, and I asked, ‘How about another mile?’ The pain slowly started to numb under the novocain of adrenaline. I had to finish. I used everything in me-- ego, discipline, sadism, delusion. I had to finish. I could see the sign for mile 25 appear. One more mile. What’s another 10 minutes, I thought. I can do anything for 10 minutes. Then the final marker appeared—1km to go—and something inside me snapped. Fuck the ankle. Fuck the divorce. Fuck the depression. Fuck the fear. Finish strong. I sprinted harder than I ever had in those last 100 meters. Left, right, left right. With finish line underneath my feet, tears spontaneously poured out of my body.” She had never told that story before. Exhale.

“Guys, you know she made that up.”

“Ziad, I really did run the marathon! If I was still on Facebook, I’d show you the pictures posted from the race.”

“But you don’t have Facebook.”

Teasing and all, she knew her story had been heard.

She needed a little nap before getting into the water. As Genevieve laid alone on the mat, she began studying the clouds above her. Clearly the space cake had set in. The clouds were morphing in to various patterns. Elephants to mountains to ice cream cones to chocolate with peanut butter. Then his Mediterranean tan came into her view. His body shimmered from the wetness of the sea. As she watched a stream of water drip down his chest and down his belly, she impulsively got up. It was time to get beers for the group, and he would help. Alone at the restaurant, with the rest of the group still lying on the beach, she grabbed his hand and led him to the bathroom. He locked the door before she could. Her body pulsed with intensity, stronger and stronger. Then she heard voices in distance. She opened her eyes and saw the clouds above had moved on. The crew had all come back from their swim except for Ziad. He was still out there alone. Nap time was over.

“You almost had me with that marathon story.”

“I swear to you, I’m not BS-ing!” she said as she frog-paddled towards him.

“Sure. I think I know your tell now.”

“My tell? But I really did run a marathon. And all that I told you was true.”

“Are you going to tell another story?”

“Eventually.”

They kept swimming into the warm horizon. Genevieve hadn’t spent this much time in the open water since her last dive in Belize. Now there was no BCD to keep her afloat—only her arms and legs. She sunk under water to rest. Even if she were to get tired, there would be no Rupunzel or damsel-in-distress opportunistic moves. She wanted to be friends with this one. Yes, she undeniably had a crush on Ziad the moment she first saw him— when he walked out onto Nabil’s rooftop the other evening. There was something calming in his mysterious appearance. It was in his chest, his forearms, his jaw. But she knew herself too well: crushes were distracting, and all she wanted to do in Beirut was to have a good time, take pictures and meet a few cool people. Besides, she had already met enough folks for one evening and was more than content looking into her camera viewfinder. But then he came up to her and asked, “So, what kind of photography do you do?” She surfaced back up for air and found Ziad floating on his back, laying motionless on the water, eyes closed. No effort. Hm, maybe I should try that, she thought.

She started to lift her legs and lean her body back. As she clumsily splashed her way into position, water rushed up her nose. The salinity of the Mediterranean Sea was far higher than that of the familiar Pacific Ocean. Her eyes were burning and her nose was on fire. The urge to start frog-paddling nearly took over, but before she succumbed to impulse, she remembered Ziad calmly floating on his back. Wait, she thought. Breathe. The agitation in her mind slowly dissipated, and her body began to relax. And that’s when she felt it—body and sea moving together, floating. So simple. All she had to do was stay still, breathe and feel.

“Genevieve, what are you doing? You look like a dead fish!” Nabil shouted from afar.

“Nabil, I’m trying to learn to float on my back!”

And that’s when the space cake re-entered—giggles galore.

They continued to lay on their backs with eyes closed, faces looking up into the blue sky. Ziad’s feet pointing to the beach and Genevieve’s toward the horizon.

“Ziad, thank you.”

“For what?”

“Teaching me to swim.”

“When did I teach you to swim?”

She turns to him with a huge grin and looks straight into his eyes.

“Ah, I get it. That’s the story to come.”

“Yep.”