| Writing Fiction posted July 5, 2019 |
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Escaping the wintry north.
At the Beach
by HarryT
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Lorie and I walked out of the Fort Meyer’s terminal into 85 degree sunshine. We basked in the welcome flood of warmth savoring our escape from the wintry winds of Chicago. Driving to Bonita Springs, we talked of our good fortune, being able to vacation in the winter, and that we reserved a hotel room that faced the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
In the late morning of our first full day in Florida, we breakfasted on the hotel patio, watched gentle, white caps lick the shell-strewn shore, and admired the ocean-going yachts spotlighted in the flowing sunshine. Near noon, we hurried from our beach-front room and tip-toed, hand-and-hand, through the watery, shoreline lace. Our quest to gather sea-shells to be displayed in our family room. Shells with hues of pink, yellow and blue were the one we dearly desired. Lorie envisioned them in two cylindrical vases that friends would admire.
We walked the beach as multicolored umbrellas of greens, yellows, reds and blues began to bloom. We ambled through ankle-deep, shore water, easily spotting snowbirds, fleeing the frigid north winds. Pale women and white chested men sitting on blankets, lathering sunscreen over their bodies. Men reaching for bottles of Corona beer, sweating in ice-buckets set in the sand; women sipping umbrella-decorated cocktails brought by strapping, young waiters from the beach-front bar.
There was no mistaking the Floridians, veterans of many beach days. The women with strands of silver-blue hair and skins the color of kiln, browned clay. Men with weathered faces, arms and legs sporting leathery hides. Down farther along the beach, gaggles of young, well-oiled girls crowned with golden, blonde hair. Not far away from blankets of tall, tanned well-muscled boys. Both groups of young people enjoying the freedom of spring break joys.
Lorie commented, "Neither the girls nor boys seemed shy as we were when we were that young." She said, "Did you see those girls in those skimpy bikinis flashing, pert come-hither glances, and did you hear those guys reciprocating with brash, hopeful replies?"
I smiled, did not say a word, and took her hand and walked on. We stopped to watch children at play, some digging sand castles and others frolicking in the incoming tide. Moms standing side by side, carefully watching so none of the little ones would wander too far. Back off the sand beach, under the shade of a swaying, palm tree, sat a tiny, bronze lady, her hair tied tight in a silver-grey bun. Eyes closed, knitting needles at cross-angles slipping from her lap. Her yellow yarn unraveling on to the hot sand.
Stretching a good way out into the rolling sea, we came upon a fishing pier. We ventured onto the cement wharf. Salt breezes wrapped about us as we walked. Gulls circled and squawked. One landed and strutted arrogantly, like an old Boston Brahman, toward a fishman enjoying a snack. He was rewarded. We passed a tattered old man, blankly gazing out toward the wavy sea.
Lorie said, “What do you think?”
“Don’t know," I said, "he could be retired and successful or unhappy because he never quite made it. Take a look at his fishing rods laying at cross-angles, the lines knotted and tangled. Do you think they are a clue?"
On our way back to the hotel, we saw seagulls sweep down to scavenge beach scraps. As we walked, we looked back and noticed the waves washing our footprints away as if we had never been there at all. We spoke about the years before we met, and how fortunate we were to still have the rest of our lives together.
Done in from our excursion, we sat on the on the beach front patio, sipping Beaujolais and watched the evening sun wink out, listening the melody of the sweet, sounding sea.
At the Beach contest entry
Lorie and I walked out of the Fort Meyer’s terminal into 85 degree sunshine. We basked in the welcome flood of warmth savoring our escape from the wintry winds of Chicago. Driving to Bonita Springs, we talked of our good fortune, being able to vacation in the winter, and that we reserved a hotel room that faced the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
In the late morning of our first full day in Florida, we breakfasted on the hotel patio, watched gentle, white caps lick the shell-strewn shore, and admired the ocean-going yachts spotlighted in the flowing sunshine. Near noon, we hurried from our beach-front room and tip-toed, hand-and-hand, through the watery, shoreline lace. Our quest to gather sea-shells to be displayed in our family room. Shells with hues of pink, yellow and blue were the one we dearly desired. Lorie envisioned them in two cylindrical vases that friends would admire.
We walked the beach as multicolored umbrellas of greens, yellows, reds and blues began to bloom. We ambled through ankle-deep, shore water, easily spotting snowbirds, fleeing the frigid north winds. Pale women and white chested men sitting on blankets, lathering sunscreen over their bodies. Men reaching for bottles of Corona beer, sweating in ice-buckets set in the sand; women sipping umbrella-decorated cocktails brought by strapping, young waiters from the beach-front bar.
There was no mistaking the Floridians, veterans of many beach days. The women with strands of silver-blue hair and skins the color of kiln, browned clay. Men with weathered faces, arms and legs sporting leathery hides. Down farther along the beach, gaggles of young, well-oiled girls crowned with golden, blonde hair. Not far away from blankets of tall, tanned well-muscled boys. Both groups of young people enjoying the freedom of spring break joys.
Lorie commented, "Neither the girls nor boys seemed shy as we were when we were that young." She said, "Did you see those girls in those skimpy bikinis flashing, pert come-hither glances, and did you hear those guys reciprocating with brash, hopeful replies?"
I smiled, did not say a word, and took her hand and walked on. We stopped to watch children at play, some digging sand castles and others frolicking in the incoming tide. Moms standing side by side, carefully watching so none of the little ones would wander too far. Back off the sand beach, under the shade of a swaying, palm tree, sat a tiny, bronze lady, her hair tied tight in a silver-grey bun. Eyes closed, knitting needles at cross-angles slipping from her lap. Her yellow yarn unraveling on to the hot sand.
Stretching a good way out into the rolling sea, we came upon a fishing pier. We ventured onto the cement wharf. Salt breezes wrapped about us as we walked. Gulls circled and squawked. One landed and strutted arrogantly, like an old Boston Brahman, toward a fishman enjoying a snack. He was rewarded. We passed a tattered old man, blankly gazing out toward the wavy sea.
Lorie said, “What do you think?”
“Don’t know," I said, "he could be retired and successful or unhappy because he never quite made it. Take a look at his fishing rods laying at cross-angles, the lines knotted and tangled. Do you think they are a clue?"
On our way back to the hotel, we saw seagulls sweep down to scavenge beach scraps. As we walked, we looked back and noticed the waves washing our footprints away as if we had never been there at all. We spoke about the years before we met, and how fortunate we were to still have the rest of our lives together.
Done in from our excursion, we sat on the on the beach front patio, sipping Beaujolais and watched the evening sun wink out, listening the melody of the sweet, sounding sea.
In the late morning of our first full day in Florida, we breakfasted on the hotel patio, watched gentle, white caps lick the shell-strewn shore, and admired the ocean-going yachts spotlighted in the flowing sunshine. Near noon, we hurried from our beach-front room and tip-toed, hand-and-hand, through the watery, shoreline lace. Our quest to gather sea-shells to be displayed in our family room. Shells with hues of pink, yellow and blue were the one we dearly desired. Lorie envisioned them in two cylindrical vases that friends would admire.
We walked the beach as multicolored umbrellas of greens, yellows, reds and blues began to bloom. We ambled through ankle-deep, shore water, easily spotting snowbirds, fleeing the frigid north winds. Pale women and white chested men sitting on blankets, lathering sunscreen over their bodies. Men reaching for bottles of Corona beer, sweating in ice-buckets set in the sand; women sipping umbrella-decorated cocktails brought by strapping, young waiters from the beach-front bar.
There was no mistaking the Floridians, veterans of many beach days. The women with strands of silver-blue hair and skins the color of kiln, browned clay. Men with weathered faces, arms and legs sporting leathery hides. Down farther along the beach, gaggles of young, well-oiled girls crowned with golden, blonde hair. Not far away from blankets of tall, tanned well-muscled boys. Both groups of young people enjoying the freedom of spring break joys.
Lorie commented, "Neither the girls nor boys seemed shy as we were when we were that young." She said, "Did you see those girls in those skimpy bikinis flashing, pert come-hither glances, and did you hear those guys reciprocating with brash, hopeful replies?"
I smiled, did not say a word, and took her hand and walked on. We stopped to watch children at play, some digging sand castles and others frolicking in the incoming tide. Moms standing side by side, carefully watching so none of the little ones would wander too far. Back off the sand beach, under the shade of a swaying, palm tree, sat a tiny, bronze lady, her hair tied tight in a silver-grey bun. Eyes closed, knitting needles at cross-angles slipping from her lap. Her yellow yarn unraveling on to the hot sand.
Stretching a good way out into the rolling sea, we came upon a fishing pier. We ventured onto the cement wharf. Salt breezes wrapped about us as we walked. Gulls circled and squawked. One landed and strutted arrogantly, like an old Boston Brahman, toward a fishman enjoying a snack. He was rewarded. We passed a tattered old man, blankly gazing out toward the wavy sea.
Lorie said, “What do you think?”
“Don’t know," I said, "he could be retired and successful or unhappy because he never quite made it. Take a look at his fishing rods laying at cross-angles, the lines knotted and tangled. Do you think they are a clue?"
On our way back to the hotel, we saw seagulls sweep down to scavenge beach scraps. As we walked, we looked back and noticed the waves washing our footprints away as if we had never been there at all. We spoke about the years before we met, and how fortunate we were to still have the rest of our lives together.
Done in from our excursion, we sat on the on the beach front patio, sipping Beaujolais and watched the evening sun wink out, listening the melody of the sweet, sounding sea.
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