Dear Penthouse,

Imagine living on a small island. Easy beach life, the quiet tranquility of the open sea. Blue, sunny skies every day. World class scuba diving, marlin fishing, and snorkeling. But there are no women.

That’s more or less the life that my friend Nate lives – in a bungalow 300 feet from the beach on Catalina Island. And for someone who is looking for a girlfriend, those two opposing factors seem to be constantly at odds with each other. It’s not like the mainland where you can just go out to a bar or a show and meet other people in your area who like to do the same things. Anybody you meet is usually from somewhere else, and is on vacation.

So imagine what was running through Nate’s mind when he finds out the girl he is dancing with, on the island’s biggest holiday (Buccaneer Days), is a Playboy model. For those of you who know Nate, you know exactly what was running through his mind. For those of you who don’t – it’s the exact same thing running though your mind right now.

So I wandered across the outdoor dance floor, weaving through Jack Sparrows, Captain Hooks, and every sort of pirate conceivable, finding Nate with this nice young lady. He tells me a little bit of her back-story from what he could hear over the music while I shake my head solemnly in utter respect. I have much to learn from this one.After I was introduced, Nate points behind him and tells us that he has to go to the bathroom.

Little did he know, but this bathroom trip will be burned onto the fleshy tablet of his heart. Because when he got back, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed… she was gone. “I’ll be right back” she said. But then, isn’t that what they always say?

Breaking the news to Nate was like telling a child that Santa isn’t real. Or even worse – that Santa is real, but he just died from a long battle with stomach cancer, and the elves decided to sell the North Pole to Donald Trump, who is building a 10,000-acre Trump Ice complex. Either way, the message was brutally cutting, and the messenger was hoping not to get punched.

“What do you mean ‘left’” Nate said, suddenly as sober as a Monday morning.

“That’s all she said” I said, cringing, half expecting his drink to end up in my face. “I’m just saying, if I were you, I’d do a quick couple laps around this place and look for her”. Which was, in fact, what he did.

I just stood there, waiting like an outpost buoy in the middle of the dance-floor, smirking. Sure, if you don’t put yourself out there you’ll never meet the right person, but you also won’t develop long-lasting sleep apnea over the playmate that got away.

Michelle Manhart