On the Beach

Now we are on the beach. I hear only the ocean waves and Portuguese. I hate the beach. It’s full of people having fun. Running in and out of the sea. Sunbathing. Stretching their already browned, toned bodies out in the sun’s heat. I sit under my €30 parasol never having learned to swim and with skin made to keep out the bog’s soft mist. People like to be smacked by waves that require you to either duck your head into them or allow yourself to rise with their swell and settle back again behind them. Otherwise they’d just as soon drown you. There is a man who hires out the parasols who is black in a way that must laugh at sun cream and parasols. He speaks English with the same ease as Portuguese and is one of those lucky people who is naturally pleasant. A gang of birds are working the water further out now, waiting for a shoal to appear. God help the fish when they are spotted. He won’t, of course, because if you believe those who claim to know, that’s how He set it up in the first place and we are in no position to question His will.