The overcast sky is a scrim, masking the unrelenting,
impervious sun overhead. In spite of my
poor water drinking habits, sweat pools on my upper lip and drips down my face,
my arms, my legs. An insect lands on me and I slap it away. Already a man has noticed and impolitely
pointed out the small bruises on my legs - one of the allergic reactions I get
to mosquitos, sand fleas, and other critters that bite me. These bruises are nothing; sometimes they
grow to the size of a large palm print and are scattered up and down my thighs
as though I have been savagely beaten. Piss ants find their way to my legs and
arms tickling me. Sometimes I brush them
away crippling their tiny bodies; other times I demolish them with a small,
silent ant prayer in my mind. I feel an
incredible pressure in my belly.
Translation: I need to
urinate. It has been nearly an hour of
the same monotony; the sun softly pummeling me through the cloud scrim, the various
insects attracted to god-knows-what pheromone, and the irresistible urge to
pee.
I think of Cheryl Strayed pushing herself forward to hike
the Pacific Crest Trail and think to myself, I can do this. I can sit out here for another hour and
rotisserie my Brazilian bikini clad ass on my sarong in the hot, Costa Rican
sun. I can drink *one* more beer.
Go, Girl!
In truth, the searing of my far-too-white flesh is
blissful. I could rest on this beach
forever…for eternity. In fact, I plan on
it. I want at least ½ (if not all) of my ashes spread on this beach. When I say forever, I mean it. It’s the only thing I’m not joking about
here.
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