Chapter 2 — Laguna Beach, 1986

Laguna Beach in 1986 believed it was untouchable, and so did we. I was ten, and everyone I knew lived above the Pacific, and everyone's parents seemed to be rich or beautiful or famous or well on their way, and the water below our cliffs was so blue it hurt to look at. That was the whole education of my childhood: beauty everywhere you looked, and underneath it, the current.

What follows reads as one day. It was a summer of them, and I have let them stand as one, because that is how I have carried them — not as dates, but as one long day with my brother in it.

That August morning the marine layer hung thick over Victoria Beach, turning the sand grey and mysterious. Mark led the way down the steep hidden stairway, his skimboard tucked under one arm, his other hand trailing along the damp railing, and the sound of the waves rose to meet us until we stepped out onto the beach where the annual Skimboard Championships were coming to life. By ten the fog would burn off, leaving nothing but blue and perfect visibility all the way to Catalina. For now, the umbrellas glowed through the grey like tropical flowers, and the air was salt and coconut sunscreen and surf wax.

Mark walked ahead, weaving easily through the growing crowd. At fifteen he was taller than most of the adults, his blondish-brown hair catching what light there was as he turned to make sure I was keeping up.

"Michael, stay close," he said, firm but patient. "This place gets packed fast."

Corinne was with us, as she usually was on weekends, a sundress thrown over her coral swimsuit, flip-flops in one hand, the other resting lightly on Mark's arm. She had that California golden-girl beauty that seemed engineered for magazine covers, the kind that made even my fifteen-year-old brother occasionally stumble over his words, though he'd never admit it. I trailed behind, feeling like a tagalong and too fascinated to care.

The competition ran the length of the beach, from the Pirate Tower to the point. The announcer's voice boomed over the megaphones — "Coming up next, defending champion Tom Trager, followed by Tex Haines!" — and the shore break did the rest. The waves that summer made what the locals called wedges, liquid walls that could lift a rider ten feet into the air, and every few minutes the whole crowd let out a collective “Ooooh!” as somebody wrapped into a section that shouldn’t have existed. Riders sprinted down the wet sand, dropped their boards at exactly the right moment, hydroplaned across a skin of water, and launched up the incoming wave. From our spot at the water's edge you could feel the percussion of each wave in your chest.

I remember that morning in my body more than my mind: the taste of a Rainbow sno-cone, the burn of hot sand, the particular squeak of wet Vans on fiberglass. One local kid mistimed his approach and caught an edge — board flying one way, rider the other, both swallowed whole by the shore break — and he popped up grinning, pushing back his wet hair while his friends hooted from shore. Even the wipeouts were glorious.

"They make it look easy," I said, shading my eyes.

Mark chuckled. "It's not. You'd wipe out before you even stepped on the board."

Corinne nudged him. "Be nice. He's your little brother, not one of your competitors."

"I'm just telling the truth."

She leaned down to me, smile bright, and told me not to listen to him: I could do it; I just needed the right teacher.

Between heats, kids darted into the water to cool off, though everyone knew to respect the rip. Victoria's current was notorious: it took you just past the shore break and pulled you straight out to sea, no negotiation. The lifeguards had already made three rescues that day, which was normal for a south-swell summer. Nobody worried.

Our stepfather, David, held court near the Hobie tent, Corona in hand. His natural tan and black hair were evidence, to him, of the Cherokee blood he’d bring up with increasing frequency after a few drinks. Assured in his polo shirt and deck shoes, he had that particular mix of Wall Street polish and California cool that counted as success in Laguna.

He was deep in it with Ray Bergstrom, our next-door neighbor, whose gleaming motor yacht rode at anchor beyond the surf line with what looked like a full cocktail party on its stern deck. David was explaining the business, intense despite the easy smile.

Ray stood beside him in beach-bum board shorts, shorter but powerfully built, dirty-blond hair tousled by the salt air, telling him he was always ahead of the curve.

Catching sight of us, he shifted gears smoothly. "Hey, look who's here." His eyes went from Mark to Corinne, then out to the boat. "Got a whole spread up on the boat — fresh mahi-mahi on the grill, plenty of drinks. You two should swim out."

"Can I come too?" I piped up, drawn by the adventure of it.

Ray grinned. "Sure, kid."

"Michael's not ready for that swim," David cut in.

Mark's steady voice answered before I could protest. "He'll be fine. I'll keep an eye on him."

Something passed between them. Finally David shrugged and took another pull of his Corona. "Your call, buddy."

Ray slapped his shoulder — "See you guys out there" — and jogged into the water with the easy athleticism of a man who spent half his life in it and powered through the waves toward his boat.

I waded in after Mark and Corinne, the cold stealing my breath as it soaked through my trunks. Mark dove first, his strokes smooth and powerful. Corinne followed, graceful and playful, splashing ahead. The yacht looked impossibly far, its white hull shimmering in the heat.

"Come on, Michael!" Mark called back over the water. "You're not scared, are you?"

"Just follow me," Corinne said, treading water a few feet ahead. "We'll stick together."

The first strokes felt like flying, cool water rushing over me, the hum of the crowd fading behind. Then we got farther out, and the current found me. It pulled at my arms and legs with an almost deliberate force, and the yacht began inching away instead of closer, and my breath went short and fast, and panic climbed into my chest with its cold hands.

"Mark!" My voice came out high and thin, barely anything against the waves.

He turned instantly, his expression sharpening, and then he was beside me — seconds, that's all it took him — his hands gripping my shoulders with a steadiness that the water couldn't argue with. "You're okay," he said. "I've got you." He didn't need to say more. He was simply stronger than the current, and he stayed between me and it the rest of the way.

At the yacht he pushed me up the ladder first, and I collapsed onto the warm deck, gasping, the sun on my back. A blonde appeared with towels; someone else poured water from a pitcher.

"You made it," Mark said, crouching beside me. "See? Nothing to worry about."

Ray called over that it wasn't bad for a first swim out — most kids wouldn't even try — and then, standing, salt air in his hair, that it was a perfect day for Catalina.

Corinne sat down next to me while the engines came alive, her hand on my shoulder. "You scared me there for a second," she said softly.

"He's tougher than he looks," Mark said, though his eyes held the concern his voice didn't.

Ray took the helm and called Mark up to look at the navigation charts, and as Victoria Beach shrank behind us he kept up a steady stream of questions: about school, about David's work at The Human Equation, about our mother's research.

Our stepdad was an interesting guy, Ray said, adjusting the throttle. A lot of innovative ideas about business.

"Suppose so," Mark replied, his tone neutral, his hand closing on the railing.

Corinne touched his arm. “Beautiful day,” she said softly, pulling him back from wherever the talk had sent him.

I watched my brother at the helm, his silhouette against the brightening sky, and felt a swell of gratitude I couldn't put anywhere. When he came back to check on me, it slipped out on its own.

"You're my hero," I said quietly.

Mark glanced at me, his expression softening, and said the thing I've carried ever since. I can't swear to his exact words — I was ten, and the day was enormous — but what he gave me was this: you don't need a hero, Michael. You just need to trust yourself.

Later, when he thought no one was looking, I caught him scribbling in his journal:

One's claims of true integrity and dignity are tested when all those around you have lost theirs.

We made Catalina and lay at a mooring in the harbor at Avalon, the round white Casino with its red roof standing at the mouth of it.

By the time we swam back to shore, the light had gone soft and golden. Someone had started a bonfire near the point, and woodsmoke mingled with the salt air as Mark led us up the boardwalk toward Main Beach. At the art-deco tile chess tables above the sand he sat across from me and beat me mercilessly, no quarter for being ten, his hand already resetting the pieces. He never once let me win. He handed me a few crumpled bills outside the candy shoppe next to the Hotel Laguna — "Go ahead. I'll meet you in the arcade" — and I filled a bag like a pirate while Corinne waited by the door with a lollipop and a grin.

Inside the arcade, Mark was already at a machine, tall frame hunched, fingers working the controls with practiced precision, a small crowd gathering behind him.

One of the kids told me my brother was a legend.

Mark didn't acknowledge it. He didn't look up until the machine chimed and flashed NEW HIGH SCORE, and then he stepped back, finally smiling, and handed me the controls. "Your turn. Let's see what you've got."

My spaceship exploded in a burst of pixels within thirty seconds. The crowd groaned. Mark clapped my shoulder. "Not bad. Next time, try to anticipate the patterns."

Back at home, the golden hour turned everything amber. Mark sat at the grand piano playing Für Elise while I sorted my shell collection on the floor. The two of us had played in the same recital once, at Trudy Albrecht’s house, a living room full of parents, both RoBards boys on the program.

"Want to hear something I wrote?" he asked. I nodded, and he played a haunting melody with his eyes closed, the notes carrying out over the cliffs toward the water. When he finished, he looked at me, waiting.

"It's sad," I said, not sure that was the right thing.

Mark smiled. It was supposed to be, he told me. Not everything has to be happy. Sometimes it's enough just to feel something.

Marty joined us then, her coffee cup traded for a glass of wine, and leaned against the railing with a rare stillness. "Do you ever think about how lucky we are?" she asked, more to herself than to us.

Mark shrugged, fingers resting on the keys. "I think about how much there is to do."

"You're going to change the world someday, you know that?"

He didn't answer. But his hands went still on the keys.

That night, still buzzing from Catalina, I stood in Mark's doorway with my copy of Treasure Island clutched against my chest like a shield. The hall light caught his face as he looked up from his journal with that calm, questioning look I'd come to depend on.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, setting his pen down.

I shook my head, the memory of David's hand on my face from the night before.

Mark shifted over on his waterbed, making space. I climbed up, the whole bed moving under me, the book pressed between us like a secret.

"David hit me," I whispered, barely audible over the distant waves through his open window. "Because I wouldn't read."

Mark's hand, which had been tapping his journal, went completely still. For a long moment he said nothing.

"When?" he asked finally, his voice careful.

"Last night. He wanted me to read Treasure Island, but I was tired, and—" My voice caught. "I called him a jerk."

Mark's jaw set. The waves kept their rhythm below the cliff, indifferent. This was different water altogether.

"It's not your fault," he said. "No matter what you said. He shouldn't—" He stopped, choosing his words with the precision I'd come to expect. "I'll talk to Marty."

Something in his voice made me grab his arm. "Don't. Please. I shouldn't have said anything."

Mark studied me for a long moment, his face unreadable in the half-light. From outside came the sound of the garage door. Mark's room was over the garage, and his windows looked down on the driveway. David crossed it with what looked like a briefcase and stood a while by his car in the dark.

Mark moved to the window, his journal open beside him — a brown leather hardback with JOURNAL on the cover in gold — and I watched him watching, his pen moving across the page with quiet purpose.

Then he came back to the bed and picked up Treasure Island from where it had fallen between us. "How about I read it to you instead?"

I nodded, relief flooding through me, and his voice began painting pictures of distant shores and buried treasure. I fell asleep there on his bed to the sound of it, the book of adventure stories open on his lap, while down in the driveway David was still standing by his car in the dark.