Virgin Pina Coladas

I have a song stuck in my head, but the waves are drowning any desire to put it on. The rhythmic crash as they hit a reef or the shore. The tympani crescendo as they near their fatal final destination builds to a clash of cymbals as the white cap overtakes the rolling turquoise and echos as the salty water spreads over the sand.

Since arriving in the Bahamas and settling into the paradise that is the sandy beach, canvas umbrellas over blue mesh lounge chairs, yoga in the sea breeze every morning, 100 SPF sunscreen on my scar and a shaded porch overlooking it all, I’ve only taken one dose of Tylenol. That would be this morning.

Right now I’m at a tall, wood table with a tan, canvas umbrella over me at the Snack Bar. I know it probably has some kind of clever name, but I couldn‘t tell you what it is. As long as they keep making me virgin pina coladas, I don’t actually care.

They’re playing some kind of beachy music punctuated every few minutes by blenders. I did see an older man in a Speedo order a cup of coffee, which I thought was crazy since it’s so exceedingly hot out, but maybe it’s an older Frenchman thing. Apparently all of the French people here leave tomorrow, so tonight there’s a big beach party, where I’m assuming everyone will get hammered except me, since I’m only allowed one drink per night. Very unfortunate since I let myself be a lush on vacations to hot beaches. Oh well, it’s good for me, both physically and psychologically. This way I’m still able to make it to nine am yoga every morning.