i imagine it bubbles. fries, as it browns. sizzles, as it pinks. shedding and peeling and drying and wrinkling. unfair. the price of beauty. everyone looks good with a little colour. it’s bad for you we are sternly told, from when we can remember listening.
i pack my i heart hawaii backpack with the days necessities: sunblock, water, ipod, phone, money (just in case). towel. i walk across the road. look left then right. i walk down a thin path shaded and cool under my feet, heated by the concrete just seconds before.
along the beach, i consider where to stop. i’ll stop here, no here. or maybe here. i think, and end up walking for five minutes. to the palm trees. i lay in the sun, glistening with sweat. praying for zero cloud cover and a slight breeze. i roll in the sand. unintentionally. i manage to cover myself in its grit. it sticks chronically with sunblocks and oils and sweat. i try, so hard, to scrape it off. i sit up in frustration. my hands, now also covered in sand, tell a story of a girl who tried too hard to stay clean on a beach towel that doesn’t compensate for the length of her body.
so i lay back down, turn my ipod up, and after working up a sweat, i make my way to the shore line, feel the warmth of the water, walk out a little more and commit, finally diving through an oncoming wave in the ocean so clear.
satisfied with my 1.5 hours, i retreat to the shade and the cool. walking back, i get to the hot concrete, run across the road and slip into the rinsing shower outside. it’s own little cove.
gasp. the water so cool on skin so hot. fresh water smelling distinctly different to the salt my body drank minutes before. rehydrating. cleansing.
i wrap my towel around my hips and walk around the pool. i sit in a chair that swings and spins and makes me feel both relaxed and excited. my skin is cooled yet still warm to touch. you wouldn’t guess it, but pretty sure i’m addicted to the sun.