Twist Phelan writes the Pinnacle Peak series, legal-themed mysteries featuring endurance sports. Her latest, FALSE FORTUNE (Poisoned Pen Press) is out this month. Twist has paddled the open ocean, bicycled across the country, and roped steers. But she's still scared to light the barbecue.

Sometimes it's not the destination. It's how you get there.

I like doing hands-on research.  After deciding that paddling would be the featured sport in FALSE FORTUNE, I took off for Unnamed South Pacific Island to attend a surf ski clinic.

Let me start by saying it's always nice to be able to blame someone else for your own mistakes. I'd like to say Chris was a bad guy who led me astray with malice aforethought.

But he wasn't. Chris was just a nice Australian surfer who was trying to be helpful

"Going to Famous Beach?" he asked when he saw me at the station. Famous Beach is known as a paddling and surfe destination. As I was carrying an eight-foot long carbon fiber paddle, this wasn't a bad guess.

"Surf ski clinic," I said. (Surf ski:  think sea kayak, but longer, thinner, and tippier.)

"Train station's a far bit from the beach. Got a ride?"

"I was going to take a taxi."

He gave a low whistle. "That'll set you back some change."

Uh oh. I had only  a few coins and bills of local currency, having relied mostly on my credit card during my trip. It was early Sunday morning, and the money changes, banks, and every other store other than the newsstand were closed. This wasn't New York--a cab wouldn't take plastic.

"Like how much?" I asked.

Chris named a figure that was almost the amount in my pocket. My worry must have shown on my face.

"You know, you can get off the train one stop early and walk. Fifteen,  twenty minutes tops."

In retrospect, I don't know why I took travel advice from a total stranger. Maybe it was the earnest look in his eyes. Maybe it was because he recognized me as a paddler. Maybe it was because even though the amount in question was less than twenty dollars American, after many years of travel, I am unable to resist the insider's tip on how to save money.

"Thanks," I said.

I didn't bother to double-check Chris's advice. Instead, when the conductor announced the last stop before Famous Beach, I grabbed my paddle and duffle and jumped to the platform. Had I bothered to do so, I would have discovered a critical difference between local trains to Famous Beach and express trains.

Oblivious to the distinction, I walked through the station to the road, where a man was selling fruit. I bought a mango and pointed north.

"Famous Beach?"

"Famous Beach," he repeated, and cackled. At the time I thought his laugh meant "You clever foreigner, you know the short cut!" Even when the beach didn't materialize after fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes, I was not fazed. It wasn't until a hot spot on my heel, harbinger of a blister, forced me into a small shop about an hour later that I realized what the laughter had meant. That is because I heard it again when I asked how far it was to Famous Beach.

"Famous Beach?" said the shop proprietor in a thick French accent. He barked a laugh. "Very far."

"How far?" I said. I could hear the desperation in my voice.

He laughed again. "Twenty minutes."

Relief flooded through me. A Band-Aid on  my heel, and I'd be good to go.

"In a car," he added.

My heart sank. It would be dark by the time I got to the hotel. Dark in a country with pythons, poisonous spiders, and other creatures.

"My son has a motorbike," the shop proprietor announced. I followed him around to the back of his store, where a dusty blue bike leaned on a kickstand, a white helmet hanging from one handlebar. There was a dent in the helmet.

"Forty," he said.

Double the cost of the taxi ride I had done so much to avoid. "I don't have that much."

"Do you have American money?"

So much for need local currency.  "Yes."

He beamed. "Forty dollars."

Even with a bad exchange rate, it should have been closer to twenty. The French must still be mad at us.

"Twenty," I said.

"Forty."

"Thirty."

In the end, I talked him down to forty, with my paddle riding free. And I got the helmet.

Twenty minutes, thirty. I tapped him on the shoulder and he pulled over.

"I thought you said the bike ride would take only twenty minutes?"

"On a motorcycle. This is a scooter."

A dust-inhaling, bone-jarring thirty minutes later we pulled into the hotel's driveway. My shoulders ached from holding the paddle--its scooped blades caught the air and threatened to flip me backward off the bike every time we picked up speed. My face was bruised from being hit with so many bugs.

The surf ski clinic was wonderful. I improved my paddling techniques and got in some good training. Of course, I wish someone with more experience in these things had told me that the sign: "Warning: barramundi" actually means "Warning: fish will leap out of the water and bite your bare foot, leaving behind a tooth that will become infected." And despite a lifeguard's belief to the contrary, ice, not urine, relieves the burn of jellyfish stings. But these are small quibbles. The denizens of Unnamed South Pacific Island are wonderful people.

Like the hotel clerk who checked me out five days later.

"Where are you going?" he asked, handing me my receipt.

"Catching the train back south. Are there cabs in front?"

He eyed my battered travel clothes. "You should take the bus. It's much cheaper, and there's only one transfer.  The stop is--"

"I prefer a cab." I picked up my paddle and duffle, walked out the hotel's front door and into the lone cab at the curb.

"Train station, please."

The cabbie looked in his rearview mirror at me.

"Twenty dollars," he said, his tone a polite warning that this wouldn't be an inexpensive ride.

"Make it thirty," I replied.

Comments

[Kathy Reschini Sweeney]

Great story, Twist, and thanks for coming back to visit us on TLC!

Can't wait to read False Fortune.

The last two summers at the beach, we've been fascinated by what the locals call parasurfing - if you need an idea for your next book.

[Harley]

Twist, this so easily could have been me. The only consolation is that, as this happened in a foreign country (don't they always?) at least they spoke English.

Glad to see you here!

[Harley]

Oh: what I mean is, the getting lost part could've happened to me. Not the surf ski clinic. That would not be me, in this lifetime.

[Mary]

Ah, a reminder of all the times I've "depended on the kindness of strangers" to make my way. Even the GPS StreetPilot I splurged on isn't foolproof, but the adventures one finds getting lost almost make up for it. In Tennessee, a man drove his pickup truck nearly to my friend's home in Chuckey, so I could follow in my borrowed little pickup truck -- then called later to make sure I'd made it ok. I'm glad you survived; and I concur that the cab was a wise investment.

[SusanS]

Twist, I think you are very brave. I'd still be looking at the travel brochures. And if I actually made it to Austraila, I'd still be sitting in the train station crying. And if I made it to the clinic, I'd still be hyperventilating from the attacking marine life.

Looking forward to reading your book!

[Kerry, the Martial Tart]

Hey, Twist - welcome! I can't wait to read your books. So what's Aussie for "Not like a dude"? Because I think what you did qualifies . . .

[ramona]

Wow, Twist, you are some trooper. If this were my story, it would be called, I Was Bitten by A Barramundi at Famous Beach and Now I Want Pity for Life.

Your version is much more entertaining. Looking forward to the book!

[Jeanna Schilling]

Hi Twist -- thanks for writing this book so I can live vicariously, because I would NEVER EVER try that myself, LOL. I'm looking forward to reading it!

[michele martinez]

Welcome back, Twist. Always great to have you here! Nobody has travel stories as good as yours.

I once had an experience sort of like the one you described; I call it "the miracle bus." We were in a little town in Thailand trying to get to another little town in Thailand. We managed to find the local bus station but nobody there spoke English. Eventually an enormous luxury bus pulled up, with plush carpeting and televisions. It was completely empty except for the driver. We told the driver where we wanted to go, and he nodded. He took some of our money and then we went. There was nobody else on the bus, and the whole time we had no idea if he was taking us to the town we'd named or not, because no matter what we said he would just nod and smile. After about three hours, we arrived, exactly where we intended to go, and he drove us right to the door of our hotel.

[Tom]

Jeez, Twist, what an adventurer you are.

Just came across a new term for someone who intends to assist, but gets you . . . oh, say, miles from your destination. That person is said to be 'helpy' or, perhaps, 'hlepy.' Seems to be some dialect involved.

[Twist]

Glad you enjoyed the tale. Now you understand why I wear a bracelet engraved with my mantra when I travel: "If it's not a good time, it's a good story."
Kathy, I think I'll pass on parasurfing (although I like to surf); broke both ankles hang gliding. Plus, I'm afraid of heights.
Just posted another paddling story on my website: twistphelan.com (Under Tales of Adventure) Tells how I learned to paddle outrigger canoe. Hut Hut Ho!

[Mary]

The travel agent who organized the storytelling cruises ("like herding cats") used to say that if you couldn't handle complications, you should stay home and sort socks. Of course, after being stranded many hours in Heathrow, I found myself thining longingly about socks.

[Louise Ure]

Twist, I like the bracelet description as much as the travel story.

Oh, and Adolph's Meat Tenderizer works best on jellyfish stings. Far better than either the urine or ice.