BEACH

somedays i sit by the beach, reading the paper and eating my lunch, and i look out and see a tanker passing by, wondering whose on it, where they're from and where they're going.

So many things pass us by about which we can no nothing, and yet they form part of who we are and what we write about like this.

Somewhere out there, someone is wondering about you, even asking the question, »why were they doing that, what were they up to? «

I think that's one of the coolest aspects of life.

The women´s bodies lying in the sand are curved like shells. The men can´t take their eyes off them. The seawater spangles like a drink of champagne, but the fishermen don´t see it that way, the have their clothes on, they don´t care about girls. They only care about fish. They yell to one another down the beach as if this were their ocean.

I took my guests ashore, nosing the dinghy up on the beach. Bill looked for the shortest path to the swaying palms. His feet gingerly touched the sand as if he was stepping through a kennel from hell.

I laughed and asked what the problem was.

He smiled and said that he had been in the Air Force, stationed in the Moroccan desert. His shoes, his clothes, his teeth, his bed, his hair, his desk were always full of breeze-blown sand. 'I can't stand the stuff,' he said. 'Let's go back to the boat.'

So much for the allure of Caribbean beaches.

I took my guests ashore, nosing the dinghy up on the beach. Bill grimaced and looked for the shortest path to the swaying palms. His feet gingerly touched the sand as if he was stepping through a kennel from hell. His wife sighed.

I laughed and asked what the problem was.

He smiled and said that he had been in the Air Force, stationed in the Moroccan desert. For two years his shoes, his clothes, his teeth, his bed, his hair, his desk were always full of breeze-blown sand. 'I can't stand the stuff,' he said. 'Let's either find a bar or go back to the boat.'

So much for the allure of Caribbean beaches...