my foot on the beach and a busted up boat. Gallery on Flickr, btw
It’s so bloody hot that the sand burns your bare feet, but once you’re in the water it’s all right. I put on my sandals and walk by the wreckage of Tsunami trashed houses and try to avoid the shit from the parked cows. There’s a lady walking out of her outhouse, giving me my first clue that I am actually walking through someone’s house, not a convenient path to the beach. Sorry ’bout that. Most of the day is actually spent reading archival Vanity Fair and Hi! magazines, sleeping, and eating, but I’ll focus on the 20 minutes of activity here.
The bay is remarkably diverse, parts of it there seem to be no waves at all, and others you can surf. I go for the middle, something in between. The thing seems to be plateaued depth wise, so I can swim out semi-far to catch waves in the face. The odd thing is that I’ll let a wave pass only to get borked by another wave coming the other way. The part of the bay I’m in is curved, and the wave breaks and then rolls back with more force than it came in. Not really more force, but it feels that way. I try swimming as usual but the water tastes like cold, sandy soup and laps make no sense. Get out, catch fire, go in, repeat.
The food at Hideaway is excellent, but beyond that my sisters are bored out of their skulls. I don’t mind much cause family vacations are generally worth it for the little bits of actual conversation you get out of them. My mother is hilarious during Scrabble and sometimes I’m able to stop acting 5 years old and talk to my sisters. All night a Buddhist monk plays Pirith tapes to outshout the Muslim call to prayer. We walk by his little bunker later to see him still blasting away on a crackly sound system. The nearby people he’s keeping awake are in refugee houses, all planks and tarpaulin. Little kids walk around and nap in the son.