Reeling from the psychic pummeling, the intricate combination of frenzied speculation, corruption and dull gray skies, and I’m gone –for a brief interval, anyway.
Usually my escape route takes me to supposedly more sophisticated places of ancient/old/new structures and polished fine-grained customs. But when it comes, the call of the tropics –the simple pleasures of clear skies, turquoise waters, and fancy drinks garnished with little paper parasols- will not be denied.
I quickly devolve (evolve?) into some kind of a sea creature, sprouting flippers, employing the dolphin kick to swim for hours in rocky bays in search of exotic species, venturing into the crystal clear depths to brush the humbling immensity of the Pacific. Floating on my back in the shallows, bobbing with the little waves, I find a sea turtle on my immediate right doing the same. Is she also contemplating her good fortune?
The day’s rhythms carry me: up early, with the sun, hiking over lava beds in search of beaches with sand the colour and feel of talc or coffee grounds, to evenings of nothing more demanding than watching the ocean swallow the sun.
And with nightfall I slip into a happy exhaustion. Gently rocked by the physical memory of waves, an entourage of Achilles Tang, Moorish Idols and a dainty little puffer fish of white polka dots on cobalt escort me to a watery dreamland.
The local water cure is both less exotic and pleasant an experience: bracing, particularly to the privates, with such poor visibility that it’s vast biology remains mostly hidden -to the casual observer, anyway.
Still, on a hot summer day -where the forest meets the sea- a commune is altogether possible and desireable.
Third Beach is my preferred locale to make the transition. Well, it was when I left.