03-12-2015, 10:10 AM
In the early morning hours workers up and down the beach rake the sand, dig holes, and bury the seaweed that washed ashore overnight. Inquisitive tourists stopping to observe the digging are being universally underwhelmed when they learn it's merely yardwork. Their predictable reactions do provide for good theatre though.
Not too many joggers but there are a few. Some fitness buffs walk the beach exercising their arms with bottles filled with sand. They're vastly outnumbered by those limiting their bottle weight to 12 fluid ounces however. Well, at least that'll be the case later in the day. Say, by 8 a.m.
The morning swim is always da best. Makes you think you could live longer if you could just start every day with a swim in the ocean.
As I dry off a well-tanned tourist sits stoically on the beach eyes glazed over looking at nothing. He wants to go home but his three months aren't quite up yet. Another fellow who brought his tent so he could camp and stay longer than in past years was trying to learn all the lyrics to Bobby McFerrin's "Don't worry. Be happy." It gets in your head.
Okay, time to head back to the room and wake up Mrs. Boombastic with my (ahem) singing voice. I think I'm getting that song down...
"Well you a the bun and me a the cheese. And if me a the rice well baby love you a the peas. Let me take you to an island of the sweet cool breeze. I'm boombastic, say me fantastic, she touch me on my butt she says Mr. Boom boom boom boom boom..."
Works like a charm. Mr. Lover Lover. Ah, vacation.
"Here's a little song I wrote. You might want to sing it note for note. Don't worry be happy." Oooh, oooh, oooh...whistle...finger snap...reach for a spliff. Three months sounds pretty good to me.
Not too many joggers but there are a few. Some fitness buffs walk the beach exercising their arms with bottles filled with sand. They're vastly outnumbered by those limiting their bottle weight to 12 fluid ounces however. Well, at least that'll be the case later in the day. Say, by 8 a.m.
The morning swim is always da best. Makes you think you could live longer if you could just start every day with a swim in the ocean.
As I dry off a well-tanned tourist sits stoically on the beach eyes glazed over looking at nothing. He wants to go home but his three months aren't quite up yet. Another fellow who brought his tent so he could camp and stay longer than in past years was trying to learn all the lyrics to Bobby McFerrin's "Don't worry. Be happy." It gets in your head.
Okay, time to head back to the room and wake up Mrs. Boombastic with my (ahem) singing voice. I think I'm getting that song down...
"Well you a the bun and me a the cheese. And if me a the rice well baby love you a the peas. Let me take you to an island of the sweet cool breeze. I'm boombastic, say me fantastic, she touch me on my butt she says Mr. Boom boom boom boom boom..."
Works like a charm. Mr. Lover Lover. Ah, vacation.
"Here's a little song I wrote. You might want to sing it note for note. Don't worry be happy." Oooh, oooh, oooh...whistle...finger snap...reach for a spliff. Three months sounds pretty good to me.