I walk into the dive center for the first day of the four-day PADI course. At the sight of Richard, dormant desires are jolted awake and I am in trouble. A head of dark blond hair bleached to a blinding gold by the sun, barely contained under a cap. A killer British accent with fine lines around the eyes, twinkle of intelligence and mischief within.
He channels Robert Redford when he smiles, and the deadly charm is offset with a goofy snorting laugh. There are three teenage brothers who are also doing their PADI certification. In the mean time, Armani, dive master borne and raised here in Zanzibar comes in, sees me, walks over for a hello and holds on to my hand a fraction longer than etiquette requires. The mating desire is instinctual. The flirtation mechanism is triggered automatically at the first scent of a desirable partner.
I find my body flirting with coded signals before my conscious mind joins in with wit and language. Richard returns in the afternoon and talks us through the last two section of diving theory.
I am too distracted to be a good student and keep on screwing up the math questions. I exert considerable effort to suppress the giddiness against his smile and attempt to be the smart Asian overachiever I am.
I run into Armani everywhere I go. He reaches for my hand for a hello and keeps a moment longer, again. What a sight. Tonight the bartender asks me if I would like to meet him after his shift, we could go dancing somewhere he says. Tonight would be good because tomorrow is Ramadan. No…not tonight. Why not tonight? I have to dive in the morning. I wonder through the town set against the turquoise blue ocean and sync my own rhythm to it. I am not really listening and I politely decline everything.
