Meanderings of the Mind

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I cannot be the only person whose mind wanders during a relaxing day at the beach. Here are some of those flights of fantasy.

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Meanderings of the Mind at the Beach

I carefully weighed having a third mimosa at brunch. It wasn't like I was going to drive or had to go back to work. I wouldn't even have to spend money to get it. The resort was all-inclusive and, unlike many other places, it really included everything.

This made it one of the more expensive resorts -- at least at first glance. But I had discovered that other "all-inclusive" places often had vaguely defined fees in the fine print. What exactly was a Resort Discovery Pass? An Exercise Facilitation Fee? A Quick Access Wristband? And why did each cost hundreds of dollars whether you stayed one day or one week?

For sure, I was paying a hefty amount per day, but once I did, it didn't matter if I had two mimosas or twenty. It didn't matter if I had lobster for dinner or a hamburger (the hamburgers were delicious).

With a sigh, I passed on the third drink. Going to sleep on the beach was a recipe for disaster. Nothing like a monster sunburn to turn a perfect vacation into a trip to the hospital. A hospital where I would pay for every pill I swallowed (and some I didn't).

Having overstuffed myself at brunch with various croissants, fruits, and omelets, I waddled down the landscaped pathway to my cottage. Accommodations were the only extra one paid for. The handful of beachside cottages were the most expensive. The exteriors were the delicate tint of a ripening peach, while the interiors were replete with every luxurious amenity possible.

The cottages were surrounded at a distance by a scattering of four-story buildings that echoed the colors of a sunset, with more ordinary ten-story buildings even further away. The layout disguised the fact that the resort hosted thousands of other guests.

A room in the most distant buildings was a few hundred dollars a day. A cottage-like mine was into the four figures. I could afford it, and since my motto was "always the best," it was a good match.

After changing into my bikini, I clambered into the complimentary electric golf cart and silently zipped to my preferred sunbathing location. A short walk over the sand and I settled into my comfy beach chair. A waiter appeared, and I ordered an ice tea with mint and lemon.

After reading a few pages of my book, my mind wandered. No matter what good intentions I have to be productive, my mind goes off in its own direction at the beach, imagining far-fetched situations. I should turn some of the better ideas into a movie script, like Romancing the Stone but set at a luxury beach resort instead of a steamy jungle.

Regaining my focus, I took in the scene. The sky was a brittle blue -- the color thin and so bright it almost hurt, even with sunglasses on. The few clouds in sight were fluffy white balls.

The clouds reminded me of a time as a child, lying on my back in a field, my best friend next to me, using our imaginations to see rabbits, horses, dragons, and other creatures in the shapes floating above us.

The surface of the ocean mirrored the sky, the slow waves animating the reflection, the clouds sailing along like cotton ball ships traversing a calm sea.

Beneath the surface of the water, all was hidden.

~~~ Under the Sea ~~~

The ocean has always fascinated me -- and frightened me. The plasma in our blood is very similar to the water in the ocean. I think some memory of the ocean as the birthplace of all living things must exist in our DNA. Why else would the sight of these vast expanses of water energize and transfix us like no other natural feature?

Mountains are large and impressive, but nobody says, "Let's spend the day sitting at the foot of a mountain."

The ocean is implacable, untamed, and unknown. Invisible riptides and undertows can turn a fun day of swimming into terror with no warning. Tidal waves travel unseen for thousands of miles to devastate the shore and send floods far inland, while rogue waves fifty or sixty feet tall appear from nowhere to strike ships at sea.

How can one not be frightened of the sea?

Get swept away by the currents or crashing waves and you have to fight for survival. The sea doesn't let go easily. It's not like being on land where you can sit down to catch your breath when you are tired. The ocean makes you work every minute. Sink or swim.

I always get nervous in water over my head. Six feet deep is okay -- even seven feet -- because I know I can push off the bottom and break the surface, but anything deeper perturbs me. The deeper it is, the more it bothers me. Floating in 500 feet of water tethered to the safety of a large boat is much scarier than floating in 20 feet of water a quarter mile from the beach.

Sudden drop-offs are the worst. You're walking along in water up to your waist. One more step and the water is over your head. Fight to the surface and panic swim back to shallow water. Stumble onto the sand, scared and full of adrenaline, glaring at the ocean like it attacked you on purpose.

That's just what the water can do. There is a bunch of other stuff hidden under the surface. Stuff that goes bump and disappears unseen. What's with that crap?

Perhaps the bump you felt was a Great White Shark silently stalking his next victim. After all, it was brunch time, and there were so many choices. Tiny humans, seeing the ocean for the first time, splashing in the shallows.

No. The tiny ones were too small for a Great White, even for brunch, and the water where they played was too shallow.

Maybe one of the athletic humans riding on surfboards or training for a triathlon far from shore. An attack from below is a tried and true strategy, certain to catch one of them. As a bonus, they have already been baked to a nice golden brown.

No. The athletic ones are all dense muscle and bone. Too heavy a meal for this early in the day.

The Great White looked around. Ah! An ideal pair! Plump. Rotund even. Up to their chests in water, not quite walking and not quite swimming, unaware of their surroundings. Middle aged, their children grown and finally out of the house, enjoying their first solo vacation in years. Easy pickings.

Yes, these were the ones. Tasty and juicy. A delicious pink on the outside, just as he liked.

Which one to take? The man or the woman? Decisions, decisions.

"Cut!" my mind shouted and rewound the scene.

There would be no Great White Shark. The resort was too luxurious and too well run to allow a shark anywhere near the beach. It would ruin the carefully cultivated ambiance of a tropical paradise.

No doubt, an army of divers guarded the perimeter under the water. Hard-faced men with WSDs (Weapons of Shark Destruction).

"Move along. Nothing but trouble for you here," they signal to the giant predators, motioning toward the public beach a few miles away.

Just part of the service. No added Shark Protection Fee.

Would jellyfish be allowed in the water? No way. Same with long strands of kelp. Both are too freakin' slimy and too freakin' freaky. An artificial current powered by giant fans pushes them back out to sea.

Just beyond the hard-faced men, young octopi play catch using sea anemone as balls. Four legs on the sea floor, throwing anemone in two directions simultaneously, the youngsters were clearly having a good time. A larger octopus, a proud mom or dad of one of the ball players, watches for a time before jetting off to the snack bar for a tasty treat of clams and sea snails.

The octopi are regulars in the area. Intelligent animals, they know the resort's security perimeter protects them as well as the humans since sharks stalk both species.

Inside the security perimeter, a variety of sea life is permitted. There is a reef for the snorkelers. A well behaved barracuda slithers between the branches of a blue staghorn coral, while other formations boast yellow, red, and purple. Brain coral sits stoically, confident that its intricate folds are enough to attract attention.

Close to shore, small fish flit under the surface, dodging legs as they pursue tiny bits of seaweed, algae, and plankton for brunch, an object of curiosity and delight for children who unsuccessfully try to capture them in their hands.

Other fish gather in deeper water. Tilapia, cichlids, jewelfish, and others. Larger and more colorful, they are the targets of glass-bottom boat tours, the tourists cooing "ooh" and "aah" whenever one is spotted.

I wonder if the fish are seasonal like resort employees, arriving in the spring and leaving in the fall? Is there an underwater time clock where they punch in and out?

Near the pier are the creepy crawly creatures. Crabs, shrimp, and crawdads that scurry across your foot on their way to the comfy hole in the bottom they call home. I avoid wading by the pier. The only time I want to see crab or shrimp is on a plate in the dining room.

I wave at an attendant. It is getting warm, my ice tea is gone, and a third mimosa seems just the right thing to cool me down.

~~~ The Cowboy ~~~

The stranger arrives with a polite nod in my direction, taking the beach chair a dozen feet away. Tawny-haired and tall, he applies sunscreen even though he is already tan. The kind of leathery tan one gets from working outdoors every day. His muscles had developed the same way. Like a swimmer's body, it was powerful without being muscular.

His age is somewhere around 40. The eyes have a permanent squint, with deep-set lines to match. A baseball cap shades his face, but the bright sky is not a problem -- he has spent many a day under bright skies.

It doesn't take much imagination to see him as a cowboy riding the range in the late 1800s, a six-shooter strapped to his hip, driving cattle to market along the Chisholm Trail. He would be riding a pinto -- no, a bay -- the same shade as his tan. Horse and man indistinguishable from each other, silhouetted against the setting sun on the crest of a hill.

He sat easy in the saddle, gazing across the tumbleweed and purple sage. A brown and white roadrunner raced over the sand, a lizard in its mouth, bringing dinner home for the family.

A small group of riders appeared on a distant hill. Comanche warriors, but not a war party. Old friends. He waved his hat and spurred his horse.

The cowboy was the son of farmers. His parents had immigrated from Ireland. They had been tenet farmers, like their parents and grandparents before them. Their future was preordained, a life of long hours and hard work. Eternally in debt to the aristocratic landlord, they would eke out a living from the poor soil. When they could no longer farm, they would be evicted, left to the meager resources of the country's old age workhouses until they withered away from pneumonia or other disease.

One night, they took a huge risk, abandoning the tenet farm, taking the rent meant for the landowner, and running from the debts they owed. They fled south to Cork, avoiding constables and a long jail sentence along the way, and bought passage on a rusty tramp steamer carrying wool to America. Landing in North Carolina, they got menial jobs in a clothing factory.

Tales of free land led them to take another chance. The pair traveled across half a continent to Texas, claiming a quarter section of land outside San Antonio. One hundred sixty acres was larger than most tenet farms in Ireland.

It was still long hours and hard work. The prairie sod was tough to plow, and rains were sometimes scarce. The first years had been difficult, but in Texas, they owned the land they plowed and kept whatever profit they made.

Those difficult years were over, and the scofflaws from Ireland had become respected members of the community. They were content with life and proud of what they had accomplished.

As the oldest son, the cowboy could have inherited the acreage, but farming was not in his blood. He wanted travel and adventure. His younger brother could have the land.

At 14, he joined his first cattle drive. It would be nice to think the trail boss was impressed with the lad and became his mentor. The truth was not as charming. The ranch was short on cowhands and short on time. He was a body who could ride a horse, nothing more.

Being new and inexperienced, he was placed at the back of the herd as a drag rider. The worst position to have. It was dust, dust, and more dust, interrupted by the occasional straggling cow which needed to be urged forward to rejoin the others.

The cowboy learned fast and didn't complain, both qualities that were appreciated on the trail. A week into the drive, the trail boss had enough confidence to assign him a new task: night rider. It was a job that required stamina more than anything else.

During the day, he rode on the edge of the mass of cattle, out of the dust, keeping the herd compact and rounding up strays that tried to break away. Then, for half the night, he circled the sleeping herd, looking for lurking predators and rustlers in the moonlight. A few hours of sleep, and the cowboy was back in the saddle at dawn.

The third night, a dust storm had come up. Young and stupid, weighed down by the responsibility laid on his shoulders to protect the herd, he continued his rounds. A poor decision. He got lost, wandering away from the herd.

He knew better now. In a dust storm, you hunker down. In a gully, if one is nearby. On the flat ground, if there is no gully. Cover your mouth and nose. Keep your horse close, reins in your hand. Trying to navigate in a dust storm was a fool's errand.

The cowboy was still amazed that he got so far from 2,000 cattle in two hours that he couldn't see, hear, or smell them. But he did. On the farm, he had used landmarks to find his way home, never learning to navigate by the sun and stars.

For three days, he wandered over the rolling hills of the prairie. His canteen was empty by the second day. It rained and turned cold. Shivering in the saddle, he plodded along, hoping to discover some semblance of civilization.

He was found by Comanche warriors. The same warriors he was now riding to greet.

Contrary to the myth of the West, Indians were not automatically hostile to whites. Cautious, yes, but no more cautious than anyone else. Strangers were strangers. Some were good, some were bad.

Watching warily, the warriors concluded the boy was no threat. He rode slumped in the saddle, his horse meandering along a grassy valley. The holster holding his six-shooter was new. It was unlikely he had even fired the weapon.

They had given him water and jerky, bringing him to their camp to be warmed by their fire. They had laughed at his troubles, for they had been young and stupid once too. He stayed four days as the collection of ten families moved south through the prairie toward winter hunting grounds. When they crossed the Chisholm Trail, the cowboy left his new friends, riding north to rejoin the herd.

He spent five years as a hired hand, saving his money until he could buy a few head of cattle and become his own boss. His herd grew quickly, partly because he had no qualms about rounding up stray cattle and rebranding them. It was a crime to steal cattle, and the law showed no mercy to those who did, but he was careful and never got caught.

The cowboy now had a large ranch with almost 3,000 head, and he no longer rebranded strays. Indeed, he sent his cowhands far and wide to discourage the practice. Rough justice was handed out on his front porch without the benefit of a judge or jury.

The punishments tended to be painful and humiliating but not lethal. Most rustlers had their buttocks branded. The outline of a cow inside a circle with a diagonal slash. "Do Not Steal Cows." The worst offenders were paraded through town with the flap of their long johns undone to display the mark.

Rustlers were rough men but proud. Better to return the cowboy's strays than suffer that kind of embarrassment. Besides, the cowboy combined a carrot with a stick. Returning a few head guaranteed a good meal and a hot bath, both welcome pleasures after long days camping on the plains.

The first time he drove his own herd along the Chisholm Trail, the cowboy sent word to the band of Comanche to join him. He offered several cattle as payment for their earlier hospitality. The Comanche refused, believing the gods rewarded kindness in other ways.

They spent the day together, sharing news and stories. When it came time to leave, the cowboy selected five head, not the best and not the worst, and offered them as a gift between friends. This time the Indians accepted. It would be rude not to accept a gift.

There would be a celebratory feast later with their families and plenty of meat to dry for the coming winter.

The cowboy's journey started near San Antonio. His herd followed the Chisholm Trail through Texas and the Indian Territory (now Oklahoma). There he would branch off, following the Cimarron River to Dodge City. Not the shortest route to a railhead, but he had his reasons.

Once, a young Irish lass in Dodge City had caught his fancy. She was now his wife, but her family remained in Kansas. The cowboy returned every year to visit, sharing news of their daughter and grandchildren. While he visited, he always stopped by the Long Branch Saloon for a game of poker and a few drinks with his friend, Wyatt Earp, although he was careful never to mention that to his wife.

The cowboy stood and walked toward the beachside bar. He had the rolling gait and bowed legs of a man who had spent many years on a horse.

I pushed my glass into the sand under the table. One of the subtle conveniences provided by the resort. A glass placed on the table would be refilled; placed in the sand, the glass would be removed. Another drink and my bladder would protest.

The TV ads and brochures for the resort all talked about the beautiful white sand beaches. It was a lie. The sand wasn't actually white, except in comparison to the dark tans of the bodies which lay on it. The grains underfoot had a light brown tint that could only be seen in the shade. The fierce rays of the sun washed away the color everywhere else.

My mind resumed its wanderings.

~~~ James Bond ~~~

An older man splashed through the shallows. His back was straight, his hair silver, and his age somewhere beyond 60. He was physically fit, which was good because he was wearing a bathing suit of the European style. Meaning it barely covered his bulging manhood in the front and even less in the rear. He paused, looking out toward the horizon.

A wealthy European adventurer, I decided. One of a long line of aristocrats. He was a Prince, a title his family had acquired years ago, ruling one of the small principalities that eventually merged to form France, Germany, or Italy. The principality had disappeared, but the title and the wealth remained.

His home, when he was home, was a castle located in a lush valley surrounded by tall mountains. Another holdover from the days when Princes governed more than they played.

The tan came from climbing the Alps. He had been a stunt double for Clint Eastwood in The Eiger Sanction. In summer, he sailed the Mediterranean in his yacht, meandering among idyllic Greek islands, dining in Italian bistros, and partying on the French Riviera.

I recognized him now -- he was the prototype for James Bond. I had once read an article about him. Handsome and dashing, a beautiful woman always at his side, he had his martinis shaken, not stirred. Or maybe stirred, not shaken. I could never remember.

The Prince stood by the baccarat table, suave in his tuxedo, relaxed in his manner. Fishing a silver case from an inside pocket, he selected one of the thin cigarettes. His movements were smooth as he lit the end. Smoke circled his head like a halo. The cigarettes were made especially for him in Algeria of strong but sweet smelling tobacco.