An'glow' Saxon

Yesterday Raphael and I went to the beach. It was a beautiful, breezy, blue experience. The water was clear and vibrant aqua. The sand reflected the brightness of the shining, expansive sky. Palm trees swayed elegantly as muscled bodies jogged to and fro in front of us along the waterline. It was the perfect day to lay on a towel and tap your foot as the latest GaGa streamed into your earbuds.

When we arrived it was quite windy. I had a hell of a time trying to get the umbrella pole stationed into the sand. People all around smiled politely as they internally laughed at my clumsy attempts. I looked like a frazzled Roald Amundsen in flip flops trying to lay claim to this part of the beach. Finally, Raphael did some kind of 'drilling' technique with the collapsed umbrella pole. He tamped around the base and pushed open the flowery canopy. Voila! I was in the shade. Neighboring beachies returned to their books and lost interest.

I positioned my chair as Raphael spread out his towel. We settled in with our Ipods, magazines, cooler of Coke Zeros and veggie chips. Stripping down to our swimsuits, we again gained notice. One of us was olive and not working as a solar power alternative. The other was, well, working as a solar power alternative.

Digging into bags, out came the sunblocks. Raphael had a very sophisticated system of 'numbers' for various parts of his body: The SPFs ranged from a 15 for his face, 4 for his legs and arms, 30 for his shoulders and any other assortment concerning various appendages. It was like watching an Australian Gold sponsored skin cancer symposium. He replied stoic-like without looking at me; "Don't knock it....it works." I had no doubt. When I met him last fall, he looked like he had just driven to my place from Ipanema. Over the fall and winter his tan had faded because of weather obstacles and work related time constraints. His spray-on technique would have him looking luminous by dinnertime. I could envision him all carmelly as he tossed the salad while I still looked like a saltine setting the table.

As he rubbed in his sun potions I broke out my Sunblock with an SPF of 70. White paste was spread onto my arms, neck, face, legs and all over. I felt like I was applying window caulk to my skin. Every inch of exposed body had to be covered. If not, a literal hot pink results. I burn like a Southern California brush fire and have to take extreme precaution. My redheaded Welsh/English mother is responsible. I didn't get the freckles and ginger locks but pretty much everything else that comes with my inherited epidermis. In short, I don't tan. Absorbing UV rays and frying is my specialty. My back could be utilized on the 4th of July for various meat and poultry dishes.

A smiling Raphael spread out on his towel and contented himself in a shower of sun. Positioning my chair just so, I huddled under my umbrella. I was clear of direct beams except for the first three toes on my left foot. Reaching forward, I slathered them in cream and lay back in exhaustion. My whole outer layer had been sealed. I should have just put on a hazmat suit. The plan was to stay in the shade for at least a half hour and then do a quick little splash in the ocean for less than 10 minutes. If I kept my exposure to a total of less than a half hour, a crimson skin should be kept at bay. I opened up my Vanity Fair and read about Tiger and the waitress from the Orlando Perkins. Speaking of exhaustion...how did he have the energy to keep all these women in order? But, I digress.

30 minutes went by and it was time to test the welcoming ocean. Raphael was bopping to Mary J Blige and smiling as I mouthed "I am going for a dip." Jumping up, I trekked down to the water. It was surprisingly cool. I stood and tried to get used to the temperature. The fahrenheit was in the 80s but the water had not warmed. I took little steps in the sand and moved farther toward the waves. There was a gorgeous clarity below me as I pushed against the foamy tide. I turned and waved at Raphael who was applying #8 to his neck.

He doesn't know I can't swim. I haven't gotten around to telling him. It is enough of a chore to get me to the beach let alone it's watery depths beyond. The few times we have gone he has never asked why I don't plunge and float like he does. I guess he'll find out when he wants to go snorkeling in the Keys. The truth will eventually come out. In the meantime, wading around in the shallow areas and bobbing a bit will possibly give the impression that I have no aquatic fears. It is tough living in Fort Lauderdale and having to admit you can't swim. People's mouths drop open and can't believe it. They tell me how 'easy' it is to learn. They don't know what they are talking about. I can't stand to stand underneath a shower head. I hyperventilate. Water in and around my ears makes me panic. It is a hard thing to explain to a swimmer. It's like trying to defend not sleeping to a cat. They don't get it and I am fatigued with giving the reasons for my phobia. I tried dating a marine biologist once. It was an impossibility.

After some safe and light bathing, I trudged back to my beach chair. All eyes are on me as they privately converse as to whether I'm an albino or Canadian. Many reapply their sunglasses to prevent the harsh glare. I could never walk on this beach at night during the sea turtle nesting season. The balance of nature would be seriously screwed. (people in Florida will understand this reference.)

Plopping down into my shade, I settle back in its coolness. Raphael offers me a chip. He has already darkened two shades and re-established his Brazilian roots. We peruse the scene and silently shake our heads at old men in thongs, young studs running in unison, giggly girls in bikinis and young children fearlessly charging the water with aghast parents in hot pursuit.
The day is exquisite. It is a beach day extraordinaire. My discomfort with feeling out of place is lessening. The warm skin tones and hazy brightness feel less threatening. A salmon square on the side of my left foot has appeared. Somehow I missed that spot. I pull it out of the sun. The lapping sea lures me into sleepiness and I don't care. I let go.

Just as I slip into a nap I hear Raphael in a lowered voice: "Look! Someone whiter than you!" I smile, shut my eyes and drift away to a land where pale people rule the pool.