Friday, October 16, 2015

The Beachcomber

 Awoke early and jogged along the beach in Boracay.  White sand powder.  Gentle breeze in the palms.  The soft Visaya Sea lapping quietly around me.
 Honestly, I've never felt anything as smooth and silky as the water here.  Crystal clear and soothing as a warm salt bath.
 I see how some arrive here and never leave.
 While I was out jogging I met this guy combing the beach.  I stopped because we immediately started laughing at each other.  Six a.m. and he's drinking beer from a bottle, so I plopped down beside him on the sand.  He wore no shoes.  Tattered up board shorts.  Shirtless with dark leather skin almost oiled from the sun.
 The beachcomber told me he stopped shaving a year ago, hadn't read a newspaper in months.  Said he didn't wear clothes to be 'ironic,' had never used a #hashtag to describe an emotion, had never addressed anyone as 'Bruh,' and couldn't pick a Kardashian out of a lineup if his life depended on it.
 He got me laughing and then we stopped and sat quietly and looked out at the sea.  Two strangers with their feet in the water that knew everything about one another without saying it.
Back at the hotel there was black coffee and internet and dark cool rooms in the pre-dawn light.  The girls were tangled and tossed atop one another on the foldout, and I stepped onto the stone balcony to watch the ocean again.  But from this distance, it's never the same.

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