the beach*

Posted by yz on Friday, August 28, 2009 in

I’m doing what I don’t let myself do enough. Sitting on the stone wall outside the Boardwalk at the beach, eating a McChicken meal and watching people pass me by while I scribble in my notebook. I write better on a laptop but I don’t even remember what it feels like to own one so my battered notebook is doing the trick. As far as old dogs go, at least it’s well trained.

There’s a couple on the beach right in front of me. The kind of couple you only expect to see in a movie, holding hands, occasionally gazing deeply in to each other’s eyes and dragging their feet through the sand. She’s pretty, long blond hair, sun tanned skin, Charlize Theron on one of her bad days. He is a hulk who looks like he’d make more sense on a rugby pitch.

To my left, school girls, most likely Xhosa by the clicking in the chatter, giggle and gossip as they balance on the stone wall beside me. They remind me of a flock of birds, with their varying styles of uncombed hair and that chatter, loud, varying levels of grating intermingled with bursts of laughter ranging from shrill to high pitched. I don’t understand a word they are saying but they’re doing that thing, 'the look but don’t get caught looking' thing in the same direction so I look there and…oh. Boys. OK I couldn't help my smile. It's too cute.

My food is done but it’s still warm and bright. The sky is a brilliant blue but the water’s better. It’s bluer with a hint of green and it’s sparkling from the sun. The wind is bearable on a day like this, the water not so much. It’s always freezing cold and I doubt today would be any better but you'll get your crazies. There's a guy far off with a surfboard, and a few boats beyond him. Right here there’s two families in the water. A Caucasian one of father, mother, son and dog. All of them in swimsuits splashing and laughing and generally looking like a postcard. A little bit aways from them a South African woman, her jeans folded carefully to above her knees. Her daughter is in front of her, floaters and all. She splashes and her mother ducks to the left to avoid the water, her hands doing a quick on her hair. Behind them is Daddy (I think) standing a few inches from where the sand begins to dry, dress shoes, dress pants, nice shirt, tie, on the phone talking busily. Why don’t black men play?

My phone alarm just went off. I have a movie to get too. I’ll be back though and next time I’ll bring my camera

* written on a much warmer day that feels like long long ago but was really March