plageShe ran up to him calling his name. He turned and watched her, lovely limbs churning in an endearingly awkward jaunt across the hot white sand. She was a supple, dark tropic goddess. She kissed him, and they plodded along arm-in-arm. They passed three black cooks dressed in white long-sleeved outfits wearing the tall billowy hats of master chefs, broiling thick hamburgers in barbecue pits. They were wet with the sweat of the twin heats, that of the sun and of their hearths, as they served the bathing suited, pale and paunchy tourists.

As they approached the bar, they passed two waitresses clad in the pink and brown hotel colors, drink trays held high. They sat on the barstools set in the sand, leaning forward pulling all of themselves out of the furious sun into the shade of the shingled roof over the circular mahogany bar. His fingers wandered to the soft valley that was the small of her back.

It was to be a glorious afternoon of drinking and talking and swimming, the last counteracting the ill-effects of the first. They would drink and then swim off the high, then drink again and swim again. They’d wade out a bit, then float on their backs looking up at the sky from the surface of the peaceful sea. They’d see just a cloud wisp or two float by in the endless blue, as they drifted too in their own blue medium. They watched the clouds so closely they saw that they were just high up sheets of ever so slowly dissolving white smokiness. He and she would touch occasionally, just to touch, and because he had to be sure she didn’t go floating out over her head.

At one point they sat on the sand and talked, absently surveying the waders and the water skiers, in the distance shimmered the dreamy yellow and white rectangle that was the steamship docked out in the bay. She punctuated her words by running her hand, her long-fingered, lithe hand about his shoulders and down his chest, her nails sending electric shivers down his spine.

He was caught in the spell of the beautiful woman. He knew happiness that knew no bounds. He was a child again, everything fresh and new, and what was it that he could not do? He wanted so badly to tell her that the world had become an electrified wonderland of endless horizons and breathtaking possibilities and that she was the center, the sun, lighting his new vista, but how?

“Come on let’s go back in.” she cried jumping to her feet. He followed suit. They frolicked together in the gentle surf.

“Listen. Listen!” she cried as he slapped his big hands noisily on the water dousing her in a tiny tempest.

“Do we have any strong men out here today?” came the electronically amplified voice a bit down the shore. They were gearing up for a game of tug-o-war.

“Do we have any women out here who believe in women’s lib?” shouted the Hotel Social Director uncoiling a length of stout rope.

“Come one! Come all! The boys against the girls. Come on. Come on. The boys against the girls!”

“That sounds like fun,” she said turning back from the voice to her man, but he was gone. She twirled in the water, puzzled. Just then a big, hard fish pushed through her legs from behind. It lifted her right up out of the water. Her cry of pure terror was stilled as she toppled over backwards and went under. He grinningly helped her to her feet.

“You think you’re funny,” she pouted. He laughed and kissed her frown away. The lovely day was still young, and so were they. ..

( by Dr. Arthur Lewin,   www. )