After rolling a joint for the walk into town, and after having a tasty Margaretta, we opened the back gate in the garden to stroll, once more along the boardwalk. The sea air felt clean and new from being whipped into the atmosphere by waves just a short walk away. The local boys were out, tattooed and lean with sun-kissed skin and auburn locks in tangles. They walk with assurance, their bodies toned and tight, sleek as the seals and dolphins they emulate.
I watched as he approached, the boy with tattoos on his arms and gut. His free gate in bare feet, the tattoos flying up around his ankles, his body fresh and wet from a plunge in the sea. His eyes caught mine for a moment,could he see the lust? Something he must be use to, from both sexes, for who doesn't enjoy the beauty of an athletic body. And why would he so openly display his if he didn't like, perhaps yearn for that admiration.
At the pier we walked out to where the waves rolled under us, formed into giant tubes of water and fell like a moving waterfall in its race to the sand. Some would make the pier sway as if on a ship so that you could feel its power, its strength. We watched the surfers surf in their wet suits. We watched them sit with their legs spread, sitting on their slim crafts waiting for the right wave, the next ride.
The sun warmed us while the sea air felt cool on our skin. Sitting on the pier, watching, waiting as the surfers did for the next wave, the still between sets, the rhythmic movement of bits of kelp floating on the surface of the sea lulled us to dream of warm summer days of long ago when the sea called to us.
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