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The first time I saw Mara Bennett, they were standing behind Court Six with one shoe in their hand and
blood running down the side of one foot.
Nobody else seemed especially concerned.
A referee glanced over, decided the injury was not immediately life-threatening, and returned to checking
the net height. Two players continued warming up ten feet away. Somewhere near the registration tent, an
announcer reminded everyone that vehicles parked along the seawall would be ticketed after noon.
Mara looked at the broken sandal, then at the sharp shell embedded near the heel.
“Do you have tweezers?” they asked.
I held up the paper cup in my hand.
“I have coffee.”
“That’s less useful.”
“I know.”
I pointed toward the white medical canopy beyond Court Three.
“Athletic trainer.”
“I’m supposed to play in eight minutes.”
“Then you have seven minutes to become reasonable.”
Mara studied me as though deciding whether the comment deserved offense.
Instead, they smiled.
“You always talk to strangers like that?”
“Only the bleeding ones.”
That was how we met.
Not at a championship.
Not during a dramatic rally.
1
Behind Court Six, before nine in the morning, while somebody’s forgotten breakfast burrito attracted three
gulls beneath the referee stand.
This was the summer of 1997, when beach volleyball still felt divided between the world people saw on
television and the world the rest of us inhabited every weekend.
Television showed stadium courts, sponsor banners, packed crowds, and athletes diving beneath perfect
blue skies.
Our version involved borrowed sunglasses, handwritten brackets, unreliable trucks, scorched feet, and
motel rooms where four people argued over who had used the last clean towel.
I belonged to the second world.
So did Mara, though they did not seem willing to accept it.
At twenty-two, Mara carried the confidence of someone who believed success was delayed rather than
uncertain. They had played indoor volleyball in college, moved west after graduation, and spent six months
attempting to turn a powerful arm and an impressive vertical jump into a beach career.
The transition had not gone smoothly.
Indoor volleyball had taught Mara to attack systems.
The beach demanded that they read conditions.
Indoor had given them coaches, substitutions, and six players sharing responsibility.
The beach offered one partner, no bench, and nowhere to hide.
Mara hated that.
They also loved it.
That contradiction appeared in nearly every conversation we had.
After the trainer removed the shell and taped the cut, Mara returned to Court Six wearing one shoe and one
borrowed sandal.
Their partner, Lena, stood with arms crossed.
“You ready now?”
“Completely.”
2
“You’re wearing a flip-flop.”
“Only until the whistle.”
Lena looked at me.
“You responsible for this?”
“I suggested medical care.”
“That’s more responsibility than Mara usually accepts.”
Mara ignored both of us and pulled off the sandal.
The match began.
They lost the first game 15–4.
Side-out scoring made the defeat feel longer than the number suggested. Mara hit hard enough to impress
people walking past, but half the swings landed beyond the boundary line. Lena spent the game chasing
sets that drifted too close to the net and calling balls Mara had already decided to take.
Between games, they argued beneath the umbrella.
Not loudly.
Experienced partners know how to fight without attracting spectators.
“You’re leaving the whole short court open,” Lena said.
“They keep hitting deep.”
“Because they know you’re cheating deep.”
“I’m reading the hitter.”
“You’re guessing.”
Mara picked up a water bottle.
“What’s the difference?”
Lena laughed once.
“About eleven points.”
3
I should have walked away.
Instead, I stayed behind the scoreboard pretending to read the bracket.
The second game went better.
Mara stopped swinging at every ball as though trying to settle a personal disagreement with gravity. They
rolled shots into the corners. Lena served short into the wind. The score reached 12–12 before a disputed
touch call changed the momentum.
Mara insisted the blocker had contacted the ball.
The referee disagreed.
A crowd began forming, drawn by conflict more reliably than by good volleyball.
Mara approached the stand.
“That changed direction.”
“I saw no touch.”
“You couldn’t see from there.”
The referee’s expression hardened.
“I was in position.”
“No, you weren’t.”
Lena grabbed Mara’s wrist.
“Enough.”
The word came quietly.
Mara looked toward the crowd.
Then back at the referee.
For one second, pride and judgment stood on opposite sides of the same decision.
Mara stepped away.
They lost 15–13.
4
After shaking hands, Lena packed without speaking.
Mara sat on the sand and stared toward the water.
The referee climbed down, rolled the sleeves of a faded windbreaker, and carried the game ball toward the
next court.
“You going to apologize?” I asked.
Mara looked up.
“For losing?”
“For telling the referee how to do the job.”
“They missed the call.”
“Maybe.”
“They did.”
“That doesn’t make everything after it useful.”
Mara dug both heels into the sand.
“You don’t even play.”
“I used to.”
That caught their attention.
“What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic.”
I held up the coffee cup.
“I got better at watching than competing.”
“Sounds like quitting.”
“Sometimes it was.”
Mara looked back toward the referee.
5
The official was helping a junior scorekeeper unfold a chair.
“I’ll apologize later.”
“You mean when it costs less.”
“That too.”
The beach remembers people who behave badly, but it also gives them repeated chances to become more
than their worst afternoon.
Mara would need several.
Over the next year, our lives began overlapping so often that friendship became easier than avoiding it.
I worked weekends for a small volleyball equipment vendor named June, whose trailer sat between
registration and the food stand. We sold balls, tape, visors, sunglasses, and sunscreen to athletes who
insisted they had packed everything until ten minutes before their first match.
Mara became one of our best customers.
Tape for the injured foot.
Replacement sunglasses after a pair disappeared into the surf.
A new ball after Lena claimed theirs had become “too soft to trust.”
June watched Mara inspect three different volleyballs one Saturday.
“You planning to buy one?”
“I’m comparing them.”
“You’ve been comparing them for twenty minutes.”
“Pressure feels different.”
June leaned toward me.
“People who can’t control tournaments start controlling equipment.”
Mara heard.
“I can control tournaments.”
6
June smiled.
“Then why are you still shopping?”
Mara bought two volleyballs.
They returned one the following week.
Tuesday evenings became practice nights.
Mara and Lena invited me to join whenever they needed a fourth player. I had not competed seriously in
years, but my body remembered enough to be useful and complained enough afterward to make me regret
it.
Mara treated practice like a trial.
Every error required explanation.
Every lost game became evidence.
Every successful swing encouraged three more reckless ones.
Lena absorbed the pressure until one evening, after Mara criticized a high set for drifting twelve inches too
far inside, they placed the ball on the sand and walked toward the parking lot.
Mara called after them.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“We aren’t finished.”
“I am.”
The remaining players stood awkwardly beside the net.
Mara looked at me.
“What?”
“You heard.”
“The set was bad.”
7
“It was.”
“So?”
“So Lena already knows.”
Mara kicked sand over the service line.
“Then why keep doing it?”
“Why do you?”
The question slowed them.
“Do what?”
“Make the same mistake.”
“I don’t.”
“You believe every mistake needs punishment.”
“That’s not a mistake.”
“It is if you want people to stay.”
Mara hated advice unless it sounded like their own idea.
They packed silently.
Lena did not return Thursday.
Or the next Tuesday.
At Saturday’s tournament, Mara arrived alone.
The registration director found a substitute partner, an older player named Ruth who had competed since
the early eighties and approached volleyball with the calm of someone who had survived several
professional tours, multiple rule changes, and enough failed partnerships to stop treating any one
tournament like a final judgment.
During warm-ups, Mara explained their preferred defensive system.
Ruth listened.
8
Then said, “No.”
Mara blinked.
“No?”
“I’m blocking.”
“I usually block.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you blocking?”
“Because you need to learn the backcourt.”
Mara looked toward the registration tent, perhaps hoping someone would intervene.
Nobody did.
Ruth blocked.
Mara defended.
The first game was ugly.
Shots landed short.
Deep attacks split the court.
Mara guessed repeatedly and guessed wrong.
Ruth offered no criticism.
At the side change, Mara said, “You can tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
“You already know.”
“I’m asking.”
“No, you’re asking me to carry your frustration.”
Ruth wiped sand from both arms.
“I charge extra for that.”
9
Despite everything, Mara laughed.
They lost the match but played better by the end.
Afterward, Ruth made Mara rake the court.
“Why?”
“Because we used it.”
“There are volunteers.”
“They’ve got enough work.”
Mara pulled the rake badly.
Ruth corrected the angle.
“Don’t fight the sand.”
“Everybody says that.”
“Maybe everybody noticed something.”
That summer, Mara changed slowly enough that most people missed it.
They apologized to the referee from Court Six.
Not elegantly.
“I still think the call was wrong.”
The referee raised an eyebrow.
“That your apology?”
“I’m working toward it.”
“Take your time.”
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
The referee nodded.
“That part I agree with.”
10
They shook hands.
Mara began helping June at the equipment trailer after early losses. They taught juniors how to test wind
direction. They stopped correcting every set Lena made after Lena eventually returned.
The partnership recovered, though not completely.
Trust rarely returns in the same shape it had before.
Sometimes it returns more honest.
Lena no longer absorbed criticism silently.
Mara learned that disagreement did not automatically equal disloyalty.
By 1999, they were winning consistently.
Not major professional events.
Local opens.
Qualifiers.
Enough prize money to cover travel if they shared motel rooms and ate from coolers.
The beach began recognizing them.
Children asked for photographs.
Tournament directors seeded them near the top.
College players watched warm-ups.
Mara pretended none of it mattered.
It mattered enormously.
Success brought sponsors.
Small ones.
A local restaurant printed its name on their uniforms. A sunglass company offered discounted equipment.
June provided volleyballs in exchange for helping at clinics.
Mara wanted more.
11
The Olympics had changed the sport’s imagination. Every ambitious player now possessed a path that led,
however improbably, toward national teams, ranking points, international events, and stadiums far beyond
California.
Lena wanted to try.
Mara wanted to sacrifice everything.
Those are not identical commitments.
The conflict emerged during a tournament in Santa Barbara.
They had lost a semifinal after three long games.
Lena sat beneath the umbrella eating an orange.
Mara paced.
“We need to train full-time.”
“We train five days a week.”
“We work five days a week.”
“I like my job.”
“That’s the problem.”
Lena stopped peeling the orange.
“My job is a problem?”
“It divides focus.”
“So does rent.”
“We can figure that out.”
“You can.”
Mara stood still.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you think wanting something badly enough makes the cost disappear.”
12
“I think people use cost as an excuse.”
Lena placed the orange inside the cooler.
“And I think you’re asking me to become you.”
The argument ended there because neither knew how to continue without causing permanent damage.
They finished the season.
Then separated.
The beach discussed the breakup for weeks.
Some blamed Lena for lacking commitment.
Others blamed Mara for demanding too much.
Both stories were incomplete.
Partnership endings attract simple explanations because uncertainty makes spectators uncomfortable.
The truth was that Lena wanted volleyball to enrich a life.
Mara wanted volleyball to become one.
Neither choice was dishonest.
They simply could not keep making both at once.
Mara partnered with an athlete named Shelby, whose ambition matched theirs closely enough to feel like
destiny.
They moved into a small apartment near Hermosa with four other players. Mattresses covered the livingroom floor. Tournament gear occupied every closet. Nobody owned enough plates, but everybody owned
multiple pairs of sunglasses.
Training began before sunrise.
Strength work.
Sand sessions.
Video review.
13
Recovery.
Afternoon serving.
The days became disciplined and joyless.
Mara interpreted that as seriousness.
Results improved.
They qualified for larger events.
Won a match against a seeded professional team.
Received attention from a national development coach.
The dream stopped looking imaginary.
Then Shelby injured a knee.
One awkward landing.
One sound nobody nearby forgot.
The trainer stabilized the leg beneath the medical tent while Mara stood outside, covered in sand, asking
whether they could still enter the following week with another partner.
I heard the question.
So did June.
Neither of us spoke until later.
At the equipment trailer, Mara searched through a box of tape without seeing anything inside it.
June closed the lid.
“What are you doing?”
“I need tape.”
“No, you don’t.”
Mara’s face tightened.
14
“You think I don’t care.”
“I think you care about losing the future.”
“That’s exactly what this is.”
June shook her head.
“No. Shelby is lying under a tent wondering whether walking will hurt tomorrow.”
Mara looked away.
“Both things can matter.”
“They can.”
June softened.
“But one is happening to a person. The other is happening inside your imagination.”
Mara left without buying anything.
Shelby required surgery.
Recovery would take most of a year.
Mara found a temporary partner within two weeks.
The beach noticed.
Nobody confronted them directly.
Community judgment rarely needs formal announcement.
Invitations slowed.
Conversations shortened.
People remained polite.
Mara felt the change and resented it.
“They think I abandoned Shelby.”
“Did you?” I asked.
15
“No.”
“Have you visited?”
Mara said nothing.
“Called?”
“We text.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Mara walked away.
For the first time since we met, I wondered whether ambition had consumed something that could not
easily be rebuilt.
Then Mara disappeared.
Not completely.
They stopped entering local tournaments. Trained elsewhere. Traveled with the new partner. Chased
international qualifying points.
Months passed.
Occasional reports returned through the community.
A ninth-place finish.
An early elimination.
A disagreement with a coach.
A strong result overseas.
Then silence again.
In the summer of 2001, I found Mara sitting behind Room 214 at a motel near Huntington Beach.
Their luggage had been lost on the flight home.
One shoulder was taped.
The new partnership had ended that morning.
16
Mara held a paper cup from the coffee shop but had not taken a drink.
“You look terrible,” I said.
“Good to see you too.”
I sat beside them on the concrete walkway.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then Mara said, “I made it.”
“To what?”
“The level I wanted.”
They laughed without humor.
“It looked different when I got there.”
I waited.
“We spent every week calculating points. Flights. Entry lists. Who might withdraw. Which partner could
improve ranking. Which coach knew which selector.”
Mara rubbed the taped shoulder.
“I thought becoming serious would make everything feel clear.”
“Did it?”
“It made everything measurable.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
Below us, in the parking lot, several players unfolded chairs around an open cooler. Someone called up and
invited us down.
Mara hesitated.
“They still hate me?”
“Probably not.”
17
“Worse. They pity me.”
“People have more interesting things to think about.”
That earned a small smile.
We joined them.
Nobody asked Mara to explain the missing years.
June handed over a sandwich.
The referee from Court Six offered a chair.
Ruth dealt cards.
Conversation moved toward traffic, weather, and whether the diner had changed its pie recipe.
Mara waited for judgment.
The community offered ordinary hospitality instead.
Sometimes forgiveness looks exactly like nobody making the moment dramatic.
Shelby arrived later using a small brace but walking normally.
Mara stood.
The parking-lot conversation quieted.
Shelby looked toward the empty chair beside Mara.
“You saving that?”
“For you.”
Shelby sat.
No apology came immediately.
No embrace.
They played three hands of cards before Mara finally said, “I should have visited.”
“Yes.”
18
“I was afraid.”
“I know.”
“I told myself I was busy.”
“I know that too.”
Mara stared at the cards.
“I’m sorry.”
Shelby nodded once.
Then said, “You’re terrible at this game.”
The conversation resumed.
The next morning, Mara entered the local tournament with Ruth.
Not a ranking event.
No national coach.
No useful points.
Just another Saturday.
During the first match, Mara chased a short shot, slipped, and came up laughing with sand across their
face.
I realized I had not heard that laugh in years.
They lost in the quarterfinals.
Afterward, Mara walked toward Court Seven where a junior pair argued beside the net.
One blamed the wind.
The other blamed the set.
Mara listened for a minute.
Then picked up a handful of sand and let it drift through their fingers.
19
“The wind moved,” they said.
The juniors stopped arguing.
One asked, “How can you tell?”
Mara smiled.
“You’ll learn.”
They spent the next half hour helping the pair serve.
No cameras.
No coach.
No reason except recognition.
That autumn, Mara stopped chasing the international tour.
People assumed the shoulder forced the decision.
It contributed.
The real reason was quieter.
“I don’t like who I become when every person looks like an opportunity or obstacle,” they told me.
“What now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good.”
They frowned.
“Why is that good?”
“Because you’ve spent ten years knowing exactly what you wanted.”
I looked toward the beach.
“Maybe uncertainty deserves a turn.”
Mara began coaching.
20
Poorly at first.
They overloaded athletes with instruction. Turned every practice into a test. Expected teenagers to care
about details that had taken Mara years to understand.
One player cried after being corrected five times during a serving drill.
Mara came to June’s trailer afterward.
“I’m not good at this.”
June sorted visors by size.
“You weren’t good at volleyball either.”
“I improved.”
“There you go.”
Coaching softened Mara without making them less demanding.
They learned to ask questions instead of issuing conclusions.
What did you see?
What changed?
What do you need from your partner?
The same questions Mara had resisted became the foundation of their teaching.
Years later, one of those athletes received a college scholarship.
At the commitment celebration, the family thanked Mara publicly.
Mara looked uncomfortable throughout the speech.
Afterward, they escaped toward the equipment trailer.
“You hate recognition,” I said.
“I like useful recognition.”
“What’s that?”
21
“Athlete keeps playing.”
The answer sounded like June.
Or Ruth.
Or Eddie, the old trailer driver who had passed away several winters earlier.
Communities repeat themselves through people.
Lessons move from one voice into another until nobody remembers where they began.
In 2008, the beach hosted a reunion tournament celebrating several decades of local volleyball.
Former professionals returned.
Old partners played together.
Rules from different eras were used on different courts, causing arguments before breakfast.
Mara and Lena entered as a team.
They had not competed together in nearly a decade.
During warm-ups, Lena said, “I’m still setting too far inside.”
Mara smiled.
“I’m still blaming you before the ball lands.”
“Good. Nothing changed.”
Everything had.
They played patiently.
Laughed often.
Lost to a pair half their age.
Afterward, they raked the court together.
The photographer caught them standing near the service line, each holding one side of the rake, arguing
over the correct direction.
22
That photograph later hung inside the coffee shop.
Most people assumed it showed two old friends.
It did.
It also showed a partnership that had survived ending.
Near sunset, Mara stood beside Court Six watching the final.
The same court where we had met.
A teenager nearby stepped on a shell and lifted one bleeding foot from the sand.
“Do you have tweezers?” they asked.
Mara looked at me.
I raised my coffee.
“Still less useful.”
Mara laughed, guided the teenager toward the medical tent, and returned a few minutes later carrying the
abandoned shoe.
“You know,” they said, “I used to think this beach was where I came to prove something.”
“What do you think now?”
Mara looked around.
June was packing unsold volleyballs.
Ruth was arguing with a referee over a rule from 1986.
Shelby helped volunteers load chairs.
Lena sat beneath an umbrella sharing orange slices with junior players.
The photographer lowered the camera as the light began fading.
“I think this is where people kept giving me chances to become someone I could live with.”
The championship ended just before dark.
23
Spectators left slowly.
Former rivals carried equipment together.
The old trailer doors stood open, waiting.
Mara picked up a bundle of boundary lines.
“You heading out?” I asked.
“In a minute.”
They began rolling.
Tight.
Even.
No wasted movement.
When the line was finished, a young volunteer reached for it.
“Where does this go?”
Mara pointed toward the trailer.
“Second shelf.”
“You know where everything is?”
Mara smiled.
“I know where it belongs.”
The final court disappeared beneath the rake.
The tide advanced.
Somewhere beyond the boardwalk, the coffee shop lights came on for the evening crowd.
Mara stood for a moment on the empty sand, one broken sandal hanging from their hand, while the
community packed itself away around them.
Then they carried the last boundary line toward the trailer before anybody needed to ask.