Once upon a child

The days were long and languid, the nights even more so. The five days we spent there was a respite from all the noise, a quiet so naturally etched in its seascape, so welcome, so soothing — truly a balm to tired bones.

The best mango shakes ever perked up our mornings, but they were so good we ended up shamelessly enjoying them all throughout the day — at the slightest whim, the most spontaneous craving, we succumbed, and were all the better for it. But it wasn’t just about that yellow taste of happiness, it was also about the sounds and smells of life by the sea. I remember this from Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gift from The Sea: "One learns first of all in beach living the art of shedding; how little one can get along with, not how much… one finds one is shedding not only clothes — but vanity." It was wonderful to hie off to that private place, tucked deep and far away like a secret, with only an armful of light clothes (mostly bikinis, a couple of jackets to warm the nights, cover-ups that needed no pressing). It was nice to not have a care about what to wear and where to wear it, truly liberating to not have to worry about anything more than sunblock and lip balm, and even those were more for protection than vanity.

During the day the men in our group would rise at the break of dawn to go fishing, on Black Saturday actually coming home with a catch of 14 — three sailfish, three tuna, eight dorados also known as mahi-mahi.

When we see their fishing boats come in, usually at lunchtime, off we would rush to shore to excitedly behold their catch and I’m telling you, it is true: fresh fish is the best thing to eat, that is a given, but what truly makes it delicious is knowing that it was actually caught by someone you know, not just some mysterious fisherman — although there is nothing wrong with that — who slept early the night before to be able to make it out at sea. When I think of all the glorious hours of sleep they are all missing I wonder if it is ever worth it, if they ever get frustrated, waiting for hours and hours, for something, anything, to bite the bait. They say stuff about the moon being this way and that, and this and that being so; they say the fish are either plenty or few. Sometimes they wait and wait and yet come home with nothing, a gentle lesson that nothing is ever promised. Yes, sometimes they come home with no catch, sometimes with too much, but always they are excited to brave the sometimes rough waters, looking at every day as a chance to start again. Maybe it teaches men patience, or hope even? Maybe when they try but seem to be getting nowhere they start praying for the fish to come, too; I do not know. (I know that is what I did the first time I went fishing in 2002.) Whatever they did or did not do, come mealtime we were all blessed to enjoy the catch of the day, or the day before as the case may be. How lovely they tasted, whatever way they were cooked, and I guess you just can never go wrong with a fresh catch.

Afternoons would be spent lounging around with a good book, or melting like butter under the most soothing of massages, at first maybe just lost in thought and then, sooner rather than later, in sleep, too. You wake up to the sound of the kids playing and splashing in water and they are enjoying the sun as much as the margarine and sugar sandwiches they are eating and you feel like a kid again and remember in your heart how your summers were and what your snacks were. And when was the last time I saw a bird’s nest? I was not even in my teens yet but there Richard pointed out five, all in just one day, and I was thrilled to see a little one wiggling out of its shell, so delicate, so tender.

Before you even realize it you find yourself on all fours building castles in the sand, with the little ones, and only with the intention of helping them out. But then they have a way of drawing you into their world, your imagination growing in leaps and bounds along with theirs, and you all just go on and on forever. Then you start to suspect you might be enjoying it more than you wanted to or even thought you would and in that moment, you are all the just the same age, you are six, seven years old again, totally in love with sandcastles and frightened of the frogs who jump at the first chance they get to live in it, like you built it for them. Crazy frogs. They scare me but they scare my daughter even more. I will never kiss a frog, no matter what the fairy tales say, but maybe I will consider touching one very quickly if he promises to turn into David Beckham, soccer ball and all.

The evenings stretched out serenely, with lots of laughter, stories, and a bonfire to warm it. Oh, the bonfire — we enjoyed it very much. And the marshmallows and hotdogs, they were just icing on the cake.

We would finally go to our rooms at a little past midnight (except for our fishermen who retired much earlier), to sleep, and rest, and recharge, and when we awoke the cycle would begin yet again.

I loved how, in that faraway secret place, I was in touch with myself, my thoughts, the pathways of my little heart, enjoying solitude just as much as company, feeling so blessed to be able to enjoy one or the other, with each other. I would like to think it was that way for everyone else in our medium-sized group. I loved how it was possible to daydream all I wanted, guiltlessly, and even after doing so, finding that there was still so much left to the day, not to mention the whole night that still stretched ahead in quiet promise. I could read all I wanted, under an umbrella by the pool, on one of the many daybeds scattered smartly all over the resort, in our four-poster bed in the room, just about anywhere I wanted. I was in paradise.

It was nice to not have a care in the world, if only for five days, and just be a child again, swimming till the skin on my fingers was as wrinkly as prunes, and going to sleep at night with sand on my feet, the kiss of the sea breeze lingering on my skin and hair like a precious potion. I liked waking up to a new morning excited about the promise of more glasses of mango shake, more fresh fish, more sandcastles, more time to enjoy the quality of our days.

It was a little slice of heaven on earth, where the simple life flowed out steadily, constantly, almost magically; where happy thoughts were as plentiful as the sand on the beach, where hope and gratefulness gushed out seamlessly like the sea.

Just thinking about those long, languid five days still makes me smile.