The sound of the waves crashing to the sandy shore mingles with the wind rustling the palm trees and blowing in my ear. The music of the beach soothes and calms, no instructions or breathing exercises necessary. The water in the kind of turquoise that looks like the ocean was touched up in a glossy magazine. The waves roll gently, the water lifting and curling over itself. A thin layer of white foam forms on the crest just before it slides up the new one like it wants to be included in the crash that sends it up onto the sand and over the feet of a little girl playing or a young couple holding hands.
From my standard-issue lounge chair of blue mesh fastened like a canvas to a white plastic frame, I only see the ocean from my periphery. Jill and I pulled our chairs through the sand, leaving drag marks in our wake, to face the sun. We'll be damned if we get uneven tans. The only problem is the view: rather than the Bahamian ocean that changes colors like a mood ring depending on its depth, I'm awkwardly facing a French woman tanning topless. I'm really trying not to stare, but topless tanning is not really something I see back in the puritan U.S. of A. and it's distracting! Her huge, very white knockers kind of make me want to copy her. I have a sudden strong desire to boldly untie my frilly black top and fling it recklessly into the sand, but my parents are three umbrellas down, so I'll control myself... for now.
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