by Wes Wilson
Palm trees, grass huts, and the windblown, heavily trod white sand all merge, bordered by a blanket of turquoise, darker where formations of coral thrive in warm water and capped white where the infinite deep turns violent and crashes into peace, tranquil peace. But mostly the spell is cast by the turquoise water.
Italians, Belgians, Spaniards, Americans, all prone, horizontal to earth and sky, some with heads down, maybe tired of the view. And so it seemed almost stupid sitting there looking at the turquoise for hours, but how can one not?
This is the same spot we occupied the day before, and, barring a storm, the spot we will occupy tomorrow. Nobody has or wants a wristwatch, and nobody really cares what day it is--except not wanting (or should I say not needing?) to miss flights home.
And all is well in Akumal, where the tourists come to bake, sample, and study the sand, wind, sun, and water. They bake in the sun, white to red and tan to brown, and prone they lie, basking in rows beside the palm trees and little thatched huts.
And I marvel at those so white turning red and wonder why. What is the thrill, the unyielding pleasure of those few days where folks bake themselves silly? They return to air conditioned homes and offices where they complain about being cooped up all day in cool, darkened cubicles, and they remember with pleasure those few days they spent burning to a crisp in Mexico.
And the small, brown native Mexican servants in white jackets and pants begin the task of raking seaweed from the nightly risen tide. Others in work clothes weave fresh thatch into damaged huts: one to hold the ladder, one to hold the thatch, and another sprawled on the roof of a hut and weaving. They are never in a hurry, watching the tourists with great curiosity, and although I hear the natives are lucky to work in this resort, I feel almost guilty watching them work. Then I look again at the turquoise and I remember what I accomplished that year and the year before. I have never been outside the United States of America, a stranger in a strange land. Suddenly I am immensely thankful to be an American.
I have seen the tourists walking and running on the beach, the swimmers and those who snorkel, those who play volleyball, sail, kayak, and those who do nothing. Nothing, nada, is what they do best of all. All around are girls with their pink thongs, sarongs, brown booties and snow cone breasts, and men carrying their little frontal pouches, towels shaken to get the sand out.
It is time to take our daily nap, and I look again at the turquoise blue, watching the Caribbean breeze blow the grass huts as waves crash. I don't want to leave my lazy chair, not ever, but the clean white linens, made gritty again by the sand you can never get off your feet, out of your hair and underwear, are calling me.
And all is well in Akumal.
BIO: Read about author Wes Wilson at his web site: WesWords.com
And contact him at wesnall@cableone
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Here’s another Wes Wilson story at USADEEPSOUTH:
Skiing On the Catfish Pond
Wes Wilson has published his second novel Nor Gloom of Night. This book, like the first, is a mystery set in the Mississippi Delta, available through bookstores, Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com. For an excerpt, visit Wes' website WES WORDS.
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