How Not to Find Love at the Marina

Clayton, hopeless romantic, mindlessly switched between apps on his iPhone as he waited for his date to arrive at the cafe. Instagram, News, Stocks, Reddit—none of them had anything new. Occasionally, he would take sips from the mug of over-steeped Earl Grey he ordered forty-five minutes before. It was lukewarm but he didn’t hate it. However, he couldn’t find it in himself to take a bite of his sesame bagel. It had become hard to chew, and the cream cheese tasted more sour than expected.

A Jason Mraz song from the early 2000’s played from a speaker in the ceiling. Clayton vaguely remembered the words, but knew the melody by heart, humming it quietly to himself while interjecting the odd lyric.

He listened to everything else around him. The hissing milk frother, the subdued chatter of patrons. The door opening, followed by a pleasant electronic beep. 

Clayton opened his eyes, expecting his date, but instead, an old man with a cane walked in and made a beeline to the bathroom. With a sigh, Clayton massaged his temple and finished the rest of his Earl Grey. At first, he didn’t mind the wait. It was a comfortable cafe with its mellow music, birch plank walls, and abundance of indoor plants (peace lilies and philodendrons were the two he could name). And he had taken a seat by a window overlooking the marina, so he could watch the boats appear and disappear from his line of sight. It was fun at first, but his patience was wearing thin. For the first time today, he felt annoyed. 

He opened the Tinder app and re-read his conversation with Laci. No, he wasn’t wrong to be at that cafe at two in the afternoon. She was the one who suggested the time and place. Yet, she was nowhere to be found. 

A shame, Clayton thought. He had been looking forward to this date for a whole week now. Laci had long black hair, brown eyes, and a nice, dimple-y smile and he would’ve liked to see those features in person. Not to mention, they had a lot in common, provided she was telling the truth: the two were the same age; they were only children; and they were theatre nerds back in high school (although Laci liked being backstage and Clayton often played leading roles). 

Clayton knew some things were never meant to be. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Knowing that Laci wouldn’t come through the front door of the cafe—it was three now—Clayton decided he’d have another cup of tea and then take off. He paid in cash, sat back down, and the barista carefully placed the mug in front of him. Hovering his face above the steam, Clayton breathed in the scent of black tea and bergamot. His comfort smell. It was much needed. Clayton felt a bottomless pit in his chest, and if he wanted to cry, he could have, but it was never good optics to bawl in a public place. 

The tea was still hot when he took his first sip. It burned his tongue a little bit. 

“No luck?” The man beside Clayton said.

“What?” Clayton turned to look at him. 

He had deep eye bags, a prominent jawline, and a short, manicured beard. Quite handsome, Clayton thought. 

The man pointed to Clayton’s phone. “I’m sorry for looking,” he said, ending in an embarrassed whisper. “I saw you on Tinder a few minutes ago. Are you expecting someone?” 

Clayton let out a strained laugh. “Not anymore,” he said. “She was supposed to come an hour ago.” He opened up the Tinder conversation with Laci and showed the stranger. He didn’t know why he did that. Maybe he was feeling a bit vulnerable and needed someone to know. 

The man shrugged. “It happens right?” 

“Guess so,” Clayton said. “Think I should shoot her another text?” 

The man shook his head then took a small bite from the lemon poppyseed muffin in front of him. “Nah, don’t do it. Getting stood up on the first date isn’t the worst thing to happen. It’s not like it would have worked out.” 

“Guess you’re right,” Clayton said, his voice trailing. “Thanks.”

“I’m in the same boat,” the man said. 

“Sorry, what?” 

The man unlocked his phone and pulled out the Tinder app. “Jason was supposed to meet me here at two.” The man showed Clayton his phone. 

Indeed, just like Laci, Jason had picked the time and place for a first date. Neither one of them showed up. 

“Maybe this cafe is cursed,” Clayton said. “First dates don’t happen here.” 

The man laughed and finally introduced himself. “Rafael,” he said, holding out his hand for Clayton to shake. “Friends call me Raf. You mind if I sit with you?”

“Not at all,” Clayton said, gesturing at the empty seat. “I appreciate the company. I’m Clayton.”

Raf picked up his muffin and placed it on Clayton’s table. Then he draped his jean jacket over the chair back. 

“Dope name,” Raf said. 

“You too.”

“Could I see what your girl looks like?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Clayton handed his iPhone to Raf. 

Raf swiped through Laci’s pictures and made odd faces at each. Clayton couldn’t tell what the guy was thinking. “She’s cute,” Raf said. 

“Sure,” Clayton said. “Could I see Jason?” 

Now, it was Raf’s turn to show his stander-upper. Jason had pale skin and a round face. In every one of his photos, he had the same cheeky grin, head turned slightly to the left. Clayton had read somewhere that the most effective Tinder profiles had variety in their pictures. Jason wouldn’t have passed the Tinder test. 

“You’re hotter,” Clayton said. 

Raf smiled. “Are you one of us?” he asked, eyebrow raised. 

“Nope,” Clayton replied. “I don’t mind calling guys hot or attractive when they are. We’re all humans.” 

“I like that outlook.” 

Clayton handed Raf his phone back. “How often do you get stood up?”

Raf shrugged. “I’ve been on many first dates, but it’s only happened two or three times.”

“Do you tell them off?” 

Raf shook his head. “It’s never worth the trouble. I think that if I told them off, it’d definitely be real mean and personal. And that kind of negativity isn’t good for—” Raf turned to face the window. “Do you hear that?” 

“Hear what?” All Clayton could hear was the intro to Feels So Good by Chuck Mangione, the quick guitar strumming that makes way for the flugelhorn. A few seconds later, he heard what Raf heard. A low humming, quickly growing in strength. 

Movement outside. The people who had previously been walking and relaxing around the docks of the marina started running away from something that neither Raf nor Clayton could see. The humming evolved into a loud droning that shook the walls of the cafe. 

As if appearing from thin air, a speedboat crashed into an anchored catamaran, resulting in a monstrous thud and an aggressive displacement of seawater. The catamaran, two or three times larger than the speed boat, looked no worse for wear, other than a dent in its hull. The speedboat, however, had crumpled to half its size. 

“Good lord,” Raf said. 

With the commotion outside, every staff member and patron in the cafe had migrated to the front window, where Clayton and Raf were sitting. Had someone from outside looked toward the window, they would have seen ten or eleven clueless and worried faces. But no one did that. They were looking toward the decimated speed boat for the drama yet to unfold.

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, the driver of the speedboat stood up, gripping the front seat headrest for balance. In his free hand, a bottle of champagne. The drunk man—who Clayton dubbed ‘The Captain’—climbed out of the boat and onto the dock where he was greeted by the owner of the damaged catamaran. The two of them got into a heated argument with finger pointing and shouting. The incensed catamaran owner quickly decided to take things into his own hands and rushed The Captain, much like a bull provoked by an experienced matador. In the scuffle, The Captain’s black polo had been ripped apart but before anything worse could happen to him, the people’s hero—a marina security guard—entered from stage left. She separated the two men by forcing The Captain to the ground. The bottle of champagne had somehow stayed upright on the edge of the dock.

Raf’s phone pinged. He didn’t look at it.

The security guard was a tall black lady with a short afro. She wore a yellow reflective vest over her uniform. She pinned The Captain down—a difficult feat, for The Captain had some muscle and height himself—and from her back pocket, the security guard produced a plastic zip tie. It seemed, just for a moment, that the whole saga would be over. But as the security guard readied the zip tie for use, The Captain managed to wriggle free and run across the length of the dock, feet pounding at the ground, arms moving like chicken wings. The security guard and the catamaran owner gave chase, and Clayton imagined how amazing this scene would be had Benny Hill been playing from the speakers. 

“There’s no way he’s getting away,” someone said. 

“Yeah! He’s going to trip and fall into the water,” another replied. 

“Clay, look,” Raf said, pointing to the left. “A new challenger appears.” 

A cop ran in, hand to his holster. He shouted something at the intoxicated runner. 

The Captain, drunk out of his mind, found no reason to listen to the cop, and continued his marathon around the docks. There were four of them now—The Captain, the catamaran owner, the security guard, and the cop—they ran from one side of the marina to the other. Occasionally they would disappear from view but they would always reappear, a little sweatier, a little more fatigued. The chase stopped only a few meters away from the front window of the cafe. The Captain tripped, catching the concrete with his chin. The patrons—including Raf and Clayton—gasped in unison. 

The Captain, now in handcuffs, sat slouched on the ground while the cop started writing something on a notepad. Once again, it seemed as if the ordeal had reached a natural stopping point. But Clayton knew that chaos of this caliber often found ways to stay alive. And stay alive it did. 

No one had noticed it until now, but The Captain’s speedboat was taking on water. It must’ve been sinking slowly, and with the whole chase going on, no one would have noticed it going under. Once The Captain saw the state of his boat, he started shouting at the cop. Then at the security guard. Then at passersby. 

The barista went to the door and propped it open with his leg. Finally, Clayton could hear The Captain’s voice. “My wife!” he shouted. “My wife is in the boat! Save her! My wife is in the boat!” 

A panic enveloped the crowd in the cafe. 

“Does anyone swim?” Raf asked no one in particular. 

As if wordlessly answering his question, the barista—a younger guy with long blonde hair and skinny arms—sprinted out the door and toward the sinking speedboat. It took him only a few seconds to reach it, and once there, he did a perfect dolphin dive into the water. Everyone in the cafe stayed silent. The cop and The Captain did, too. 

What You Won’t Do For Love by Bobby Caldwell started playing from the speakers. Clayton couldn’t help but nod his head to the beat.

When the barista emerged from the depths of the water, there was a woman draped over his shoulder. The barista laid her on the dock and put his ear to her chest. He shouted something at the cop, and the cop gave the barista a thumbs up. The security guard, who had, for the past few minutes, been on her phone ran, out of view, toward the street, and led two paramedics to the scene of the chaos. The paramedics made a beeline toward the wife who, gratefully, was showing signs of life, squirming around on the ground. 

When the barista made it back to the cafe, he was greeted with applause and cheers, and he didn’t seem to relish in the moment too much, instead giving everyone a sheepish smile before heading to the staff room to dry up. 

The cop led The Captain out of Clayton’s line of sight, and the onlookers behind Raf and Clayton dispersed. Some of them went back to their seats to try and enjoy cold food and drinks. The others left to survey the damage caused by the speedboat.

Raf and Clayton looked at each other wordlessly. What was there to say? Clayton sipped at his tea, Raf finished his muffin. Both stared out the window. 

Raf broke the silence. “As I was saying, I don’t think it does anyone any good to lash out at the guy who stood me up. But while everything out there was happening, he sent me a text. Said that he was sorry he couldn’t make it, that something came up. Some bull like that.” 

“And?” Clayton asked. 

“Maybe, just this once, I should say something. Let him know my feelings.” 

“You should.” 

“I will. Give me just a second.” 

Raf took a minute to craft a reply. He showed it to Clayton. 

Hi Jason. It’s fine, really. Things happen, I get it. In the future, try not to make plans that you can’t keep. It’ll help you out in the long run. 

“How’s that?” Raf asked. 

“It’s good,” Clayton replied. “Short and sweet.” 

“Can you send it for me?” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah,” Raf said. “Maybe that way, it’s not like I’m trying to get the last laugh.”

Clayton looked at Raf’s phone. The screen protector was cracked. He tapped the green arrow, and the speech bubble appeared. 

“Delete the conversation for me, will you?” 

“Sure.” Clayton did as he was asked. He handed the phone back to Raf.

Raf smiled and slipped the phone into his jacket’s inner pocket. “Well,” he said. “That was dramatic.”