CBMused

I stroll down to the beach with a notepad in my beach bag. And I barely write a word.

Instead, I sink my bare feet into the warmth of the fine sand and feel my soul rejuvenate. I sit at the water’s edge studying the palette of colour before me. Dry golden sand meets its wet counterpart. Tiny white waves curl with shyness then flirt with the shore. I marvel at the kaleidoscope of clear turquoise that merges into aquas and blues and onto that line of sharp indigo at the horizon, curved, like a smile.

With the sun on my back, I take to my feet and approach the sea. My fair skin merges with the tanned sand. My form traces an outline on the clear shallow waters beneath me.

I am one with the sea.

The beach is scantily clad with locals. A sense of welcoming familiarity washes ashore with the unexpected wave that disturbs the plump seagull from the sunken footprint it has made for a bed.

It feels good to reclaim the beach.

The wooden spoon man takes his place near the shore and ingeniously uses the implement to apply suntan lotion to his back. The thin man in old leathery skin and dark Speedos makes his way to the crystal waters. The bald dark bouncer with his solid thighs and upper chest clumsily dries himself, always in a long-sleeve swim top to avoid more colour. Two European gents with white chest hair and gold necklaces stop and gesticulate their animated discussion, later calling it truce over green olives and red wine.

The look-at-me bloke of three yester years struts by, stopping and posing to show off a body now beefed up on too much gym and steroids.

The Northern European couple in their 50s arrive looking rather striking as usual. They strip down to a one piece, bikini bottoms for her and a thin g-string for him, in matching fluoro colours.

A perfectly sculpted bare chest emerges from beneath the turquoise waters, long enough for the water to glisten down its bareness then he goes under.

The midday shadow floats lazily across the stretch of powdery sand. It stops at its usual vantage point and disappears over a carefully laid out towel, notebook and pencil in hand.

Once… upon a beach.

Martini Moments….For the Things I Don’t Understand On the Beach

1. Has the metrosexual look gone too far when it becomes unnatural for men to have hair, viz shaved heads and waxed bodies (I don’t just mean chests and backs) including hairless armpits?

2. No matter what any trashy magazine may sell, saline implants and anorexia do no complement each other in any bikini.

3. Women who are heavily made up and marinated in strong perfume should be made to lie on a patch of wet sand next to men showered in Lynx deodorant and sunbathing teenagers who flick sand off parts of their bodies as if it were a foreign substance. While the tide is rising.

4. Why does women’s swimwear cover as little as possible while the men’s cover as much as possible?

5. People drinking piping hot coffee while sunbathing on the beach… need I say more? Pass me a Martini, puhlease!

Martini Moments… While Shooing Flies

1. Love is… sitting on a beach picking each other’s ingrown hairs from each other’s freshly waxed upper thighs.

2. More often than not, those who vow never to enter another long-term relationship are the first to commit.

3. Is being aware of a possibility sufficient enough to stop it from taking place?

4. I can’t figure out if it’s worse when someone burns their bridges with you, or when they firmly believe they have.

5. Hello… Hello… is there anyone out there? Never mind, just give me another Martini.

Something about him caught my eye. The way he emerged from that dip in the sand, dripping wet from the transparent waters. He walked with confidence and poise yet everything about him seemed so natural.

I must have studied his form. His tall, six foot figure, his slim proportionate frame and his even sun-kissed skin. His body glistened from the late afternoon swim, his bare chest contrasting with the wet hair on his perfectly shaped legs.

By the time I noticed he wore black boxer-brief swim shorts, I realised I had been admiring his frame. And I was drawn to something. Maybe it was the way his darkish short hair clung to his head; one can never tell with moist hair. Or the way he moved towards his beach towel and lay face down on the sand.

And then I realised… he reminded me of someone.

I smiled.

A few minutes later, my reverie was interrupted by a familiar melodic inflexion. I looked up, as two French girls joined him in a lively banter.

I smiled again.

The girls playfully buried him in the sand.

I smiled even more.

Yes… He definitely reminded me of someone.

Someone I’d like to bury in the sand…