Days 16-19

Beach Boy

  When Carol and I first got together, I had stated unequivocally my opposition to sand, the reality of it, the very concept of it and the grit of it that manages to find itself into every crevice and moving part of my body – especially  and particularly how it winds up in bed with me at night.

   A photo Carol never thought she’d take

And so it came to pass on the first truly warm, windless and beach perfect day in Rota, that Carol steeled herself for the onslaught of objection when she suggested an afternoon on Rota’s long, wide and pristine beach (Playa de Punta Candor). “Sure,” I practically exclaimed, as I immediately headed out to the hallway for the beach chairs and umbrella.

“Were I ever lucky enough to be hooked up to a ventilator or heart monitor with those endless waving oscilloscope screens, I know I could pass hours of pure happiness and contentment staring blankly at those monitors in an ICU.)”

  A lot to unpack here. First, and foremost, there was wine. I fretted over the possible restrictions on alcoholic beverages on the beach given the restrictive signage we’d seen surrounding the beach bars. But Carol quelled any reservations before I could raise them. “So we’ll  take the Starbucks cups and keep the bottle in the cooler?”

  I love this girl. But the truth was, she was never concerned about getting the wine on the beach. Her worry was getting my bare feet in the sand. And when she saw me plop them both down without so much as a wince, she at first thought some sort of infarction or TIA had occurred. “Are you all right, Reid,” she cried out in terror as she saw me grind my toes deep into the soft, yellow sand and smile absently.

  So here’s  the skinny on me and the beach. What I like is staring out at the waves. It mesmerizes me, just as staring at the flames of a wood fire does. Always has. Maybe it goes back to staring at the TV test pattern on Saturday mornings, waiting for Captain Midnight to start. Staring with something to stare at is  life support for me. (Were I ever lucky enough to be hooked up to a ventilator or heart monitor with those endless waving oscilloscope screens, I know I could pass hours of pure happiness and contentment staring blankly at those monitors in an ICU.) It’s the pattern whether stationary or in motion. So, flames in a chiminea or waves crashing on a beach are like visual meditation mantras.

After the second glass, we stopped bothering to hide it

  But Carol was well aware of my assiduous avoidance of the beach at Crystal Cove, her favorite beach haunt back home in Southern California. That was because I could watch the Pacific waves crashing from the comfort of a living room in one of the Cove’s historic cottages, through a grand picture window on a comfy couch, and a fridge full of wine a few steps away. It’s really not a fair fight. But Rota’s waves can only be seen and hypnotically embraced from the beach itself, at least from the current accommodations that are both ideal in creature comforts and a mere 300 steps from the beach.

The most pristine stretch of almost deserted beach I’ve ever seen

  And to paraphrase what they used to say in Rome, “When in Rota…”

  So, I’m a beach bum now.