Travelogue - 5 July 2008 (part III)
Whenever the Captain isn’t looking, I sneak a square from the fudge we bought yesterday. The sign in the window claimed “Best Homemade Fudge” and I’m pretty sure they’re not kidding.
He emerges from the hall and walks my way. I know that he plans to give me a kiss and in doing so will discover my secret. A guilty grin spreads across my face.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing!”
“Why are you smiling at me that way then?” he says as he leans down and pecks my lips. He pauses and looks at me accusingly. “And you didn’t even cut me a piece?”
I think that if an orgasm could be a food, it would be fudge.
Travelogue - 5 July 2008 (part II)
The Captain offers me lunch. He has forgotten the bread for our sandwiches. He has, however, remembered his Sam Adams, a bottle opener, and a plastic cup. As I eat my individually wrapped cheese slices, I curse men for their poor sense of priorities.
Travelogue - 5 July 2008
It is cool and overcast. Only a handful of people pepper the sand. Another couple, like us, read and relax. The others appear to be digging for clams.
I wear a hoodie over my charred skin.
The breeze is brisk, but invigorating.
I walk beyond the clam diggers to the water’s edge. It doesn’t feel cold as it washes over my feet. I want to look for scallop shells, but decide against wading out that far. I search for shells in the sandbars instead. I find one decent-sized scallop shell, which is enough to satisfy me. On the way back I dig around where I see little flashes of white. I pull up a snail shell the size of my fist. I carry it tentatively back to our blanket, afraid that a huge hermit crab will emerge from the shell. It sits on the corner of our blanket. I check occasionally to make sure it hasn’t escaped.
It is my greatest treasure due to its sheer size.
The tide comes in. The clam diggers leave. But not before a father, uncle, and two towheaded boys in front of us dump every clam they’ve collected back into the bay.
Travelogue - 4 July 2008 (part III)
I attempt to protect my porcelain white skin with SPF 45 sunblock (with Helioplex). I apply before we leave the house and several times on the beach. I return home without a spot of pink.
Later that day, after my shower, the Captain notices my shoulders look a little red. Several hours after that, the texture of the couch irritates my thighs. At dinner my t-shirt rubs painfully against my back.
Once home again, I strip down and look in the mirror. The undersides of both legs are scorched. The skin on my back is red and angry. Two symmetrical burns overtake each shoulder blade, arc at the tops of my shoulders, and trail off down the triceps. It looks like I have crimson wings. They are hot to the touch.
My clothes are almost unbearable against my skin. I have to sleep on my stomach that night (and several nights following).
An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of aloe.
SPF 75 next time.
Travelogue - 4 July 2008 (part II)
Now that it’s hot, lots of people begin showing up on the beach. Mostly we see families. The bay is more child-friendly than the ocean. Most people stay a good distance away from our blanket. I wonder if they think we’re honeymooners. I am glad they give us space.
I secretly watch the families. One man walks along the water’s edge carrying a toddler. I doubt she’s much more than a year old. She wears a skirted swimsuit and white sandals. He wears red swim trunks and a brown baseball cap. He puts her down so she can feel the sand and water. He kneels in front of her, talking to her as she experiences the beach, perhaps for the first time. She stumbles and he scoops her up. He continues his parade down the sand. He is the proudest father on the beach. I can feel it even from where I sit. I guess this is his first baby. I look for the rest of his family, but if there are more, I never see them. The man hoists the child onto his shoulder and slowly disappears from view.
Another father sets up his blanket not far to the right of us. He and his two boys take off down the beach. A few moments later a woman approaches the blanket, a small boy in tow. She looks around and starts yelling at the man.
“John? John. John! John, come here so I don’t have to shout across the beach!”
He dutifully returns, followed by the older boys.
“Why did you park our stuff here? She instructed me to be right by the parking lot. They always park near the lot. We were supposed to be by the lot.”
They are not far from the lot and the beach isn’t that crowded. He may be pointing this out, but we can’t hear him. Only her.
“The whole reason we came was to be with them, wasn’t it? Isn’t that why we’re here? They’ll NEVER find us over here. We were supposed to be near the parking lot. She told me to be near the lot. Why can’t you follow directions?”
He wordlessly begins to pack up their stuff to move it.
“No, leave it. Leave it! We’ll just pretend we came here to be alone. I said LEAVE IT! Why aren’t you listening? Leave it. We’ll sit here because Daddy can’t follow directions. We’ll sit here and they’ll sit over there. We’ll stay here so Daddy knows he’s a screw up.”
I press my face to the Captain’s stomach so she won’t see me laughing. The Captain is snickering too.
“One day that could be us,” I whisper.
“I know,” he chuckles.
“Where’s the sunscreen? Oh God, you left it in the car, didn’t you? The car? Now I’ll have to walk a mile to get it because we’re so far from the parking lot.”
We go in the water to escape the noise of her nagging. When we return their blanket is about fifteen feet further away from us.