There I rested, chest to the sky. My hips nuzzled down into the squishy sand that collects at the edge of the still water. The black sediment was beginning to edge into my bikini bottom, like thin fingertips. I didn't chastise the fingers, but instead nuzzled further into the sheets of sand. After collecting some wet sand into a pillow, I could angle my head toward the rest of the crowd.
That fertile sky gave birth to the sun today, and I witnessed it.
Ladies were scattered here and there along the inlet, watching their little children splash in the still water—a toddler’s paradise. All the women were moms, most in their early forties, well beyond the bodily perfection of the early twenties. And yet, they were all good looking.
There is something to be said for the female body. Somewhere on all of these women there was a pocket of fat that accented a female attribute. One had a big bust, the other a big butt, one with fat thighs. Even the bit of extra on the tummy created a round curve that was respectable. Undeniably feminine—each one a perfect representation of their sex. I explain this phenomenon to women I love all the time, but no one listens to me.
Slowly, I started to pull my own feminine body from that squishy sand. The wetness was gently trying to suction me in place, and the chill of the wind against my damp skin sent me back. It was like a hand had pushed me down. Stay, my love. The ocean has a way about it. Always alluring, always charming, always beckoning me to stay just a little longer—just a few more minutes, until the minutes turn into hours. But everyone knows that there is no one less constant than the ocean.
“Player,” I said as I stood up, all of me out of the ocean’s reach other than my toes still sinking in the squish. The water rippled gently, going right along its business, because no one listens to me.
I walked to my new sun shelter set up on the dry sand. The wind was battering it all of the sudden, testing the stakes, like some sort of wind greeting. A greeting that was entirely too forceful. A polite, gentle hello would have sufficed. I tugged at the stakes, letting the ropes fly free in the wind, then started the next challenge. It was a new pop-up tent, given to me by someone significantly better at following directions than I am. Setting the open instructions half buried in the sand, I began the process. I set the tent on its head—step one. Grasp poles A and B firmly in your left hand.
I grasped them, firmly, but those poles writhed around in my hand with that rude wind like they had very different intentions. Steps three and four escalated the confusion, so I reread them. And then again. My god, you need an engineering degree to collapse this thing, I thought as the wind sent the tent upward until it nearly smacked me in the face. Clearly the wind and ocean were in cahoots. I thought about curling back up on my sand pillow, settling back in with the warm, soft, gentle caress of the ocean…no!
He really lights up my life.
“I am your master,” I said defiantly to the tent, but it carried right on with its rhythmic forward-backward jerking motion. It reminded me of my dogs jetting into the woods after the deer while I shouted at them uselessly, because no one listens to me.
Enough was enough. I jumped on top of it. I wrestled it. I stayed on top. I carried that beast back to the vehicle, not folded, but submitting.
I walked by the moms with their beautiful female bodies and we nodded. They understood. Sometimes a pop-up tent has to be told what for. I tossed my hair in the direction of the ocean, still softly lapping against the sand, still beckoning.
Sometimes we just have to say something, even if nobody listens.