Her Eyes All Swimming Pool Blue
The second Corona is better than the first, even if it is from a can; it’s colder, sweeter, and flush with lime.
The Florida sun is playing hide-and-seek with the billowing cumulonimbus clouds. When it breaks through, the air grows hot and thick like steam. I watch the great, white clouds race across the piercing blue, drifting away from itself and evaporating before my eyes.
The constant roar of surf makes a fine white noise, punctuated solely by the occasional gust of wind, seagull’s cry, and child’s laughter.
I pull my cap over my eyes and fall gently into the sounds, unsure of the intersection between sleeping and waking life.
Finally, I rise slowly from my chair, peel of my sunglasses and hat, and tread lightly into the surf.
The water is cold at first. I push steadily deeper, then dive in. I swim slowly to a sand bar, then walk across it into deeper, larger waves.
I lay there floating on my back, staring out to sea as the waves crest, turn to foam, and roar overhead. I relish the feeling of turbulence as it rolls over me.
As I turn towards shore, I think (as I often do in these moments) of the life I’ve left behind: concrete, cubicles, and cabs. I remember (as I often do in these moments) that this place — the beautiful, warm, relaxing places — are always here, even when I’m not.
I imagine myself in a crowded, windowless conference room, rejoin myself here in the ocean, then wonder all over again why it is that we do what we do: toil endless hours in exchange for these precious few moments.
Abbi waves me in from the shore. I step awkwardly from the waves, wiping water from my eyes and knocking it from my ears. She hands my a pink drink with a cherry on top.
“It’s a Rum Runner,” she says smiling behind her great, white beach hat. “I figured you should have at least one umbrella drink before you leave.”
Miami, Florida (Winter 2009)
January 28th, 2009
