Mudge let out a whoop; threw off his bow, quiver, pack,
and clothes; and plunged recklessly into the warm surf.
Jon-Tom felt the urge to join him, but he was just too
damn tired. Roseroar sat down next to him. Together they
watched the gleeful otter porpoise gracefully through the
waves.
“I wish I had my board,” Jon-Tom murmured.
“Yo what?” Roseroar looked down at him.
80
Alan Dean Foster
“It’s a flat piece of fiberglass and epoxy resin. It
floats. You stand on it and let the waves carry you toward
shore.”
Roseroar considered, decided. “That sounds like fun.
Do y’all think yo could teach me?”
He smiled apologetically. “Like I said, I don’t have my
board with me.”
“How big a board do yo need?” Rising, she started
stripping off her armor. “Surely not biggah than this?”
“Now, wait a minute, Roseroar. I thought cats hated the
water.”
“Not tigahs, sugah. Come on. Ah’ll race yo to the
beach.”
He hesitated, glanced up and down the gravel as though
somone might appear on this deserted section of shore.
What the hell, he told himself.
The clean tropical salt water washed away the last
lingering feelings of depression. Though Roseroar’s back
wasn’t as even as waxed fiberglass, his toes found plenty
of purchase in the thick white fur. The tigress’s muscles
shifted according to his instructions as she steered easily
through the waves with powerful arms and legs. It took no
time at all to discover that surfing on the back of a tiger
was far more exhilarating than plying the waves on a hunk
of inanimate resin.
As the afternoon drew to a close, they lay on the warm