To get to the beach’s toilet block with its outdoor ‘hose me down’ showers requires a slow trudge through the sand, past the two rows of deckchairs that lay behind yours that David had laid out neatly in the early hours that have now been shattered and swayed with the course of the sun or those that have remained untaken stand reseloutly pointing forward and awaiting tenancy.Past the dreadlock rasta, crocheted bonnet holding all but a few of those long locks to his head and past the low broken concrete plinth with its assemblage of yesterday’s bottles,cups and other beach momentos.
The locals sit on the chairs under the palms behind the lifeguards post, curled up with their phones or they’re standing around the improvised table, doms in hand, eyes glued to the run as they wait their turn – then hand up and crack the dominoe down – make the table ring with the sound of the heaviest dominoes in the world.
David’s there, limp on a sunbed in the shade, in his loose fit T and baggy shorts, talkin’ playin’ watchin’ .
Getting past the beach bars up the small step that’s now all but disappeared under the sand gives you a jolt when you find you’re on hard ground again then just follow the little path round and over the runoff ditch to the block.
‘Wash the sand of your feet’ is the first instruction, many fail this one, caught short in the heat and the infusion of beer, rum, coconut cocktails served in the shell and delivered to you, it can come as a surprise that pissing is still something that no one else can do on your behalf such that your time in the sun is maximised.
Ruby&Ruch 