Having achieved a fixed position in a very tropical clime, I now become the equator drawing a line in the sand, and spending my downtime equating whether a margarita, or a straight shot of tequila will quench the heated urge, brought on by the blazing sun. and bring that sweet pick me up, that blurs the hours into bliss.
The palms wave above me, their fingered fronds trailing in the sluggish ocean breeze.
Groups of reluctant seagulls too lazy to sail the updrafts over the current, fold their wings, and float like bouyds on the waves.
A pelican, finds he just can't, and doesn't even bother to try.
Bodies are scattered in multi-colored slips of cloth, between sections of flesh that are heavily lathered in tropical ointments.
They aid in tanning the hides of albino winters, into the bronze of Gods.
Sizzling in the ultra violet beams that bounce of the microwaves, waves that mock the sports seekers, with still not enough current to surf.
So many of the younger set, sit board and stiff, waxed and waning in the sand, wishing for some whitecaps before the nightcaps the day.
Sand castles are turned into a slowly hardening, royal pudding as the dwarfed serfdom storms their walls.
Just a lazy day under the shell of a pale blue sky, and an old straw hat, that makes a shady spot to dwell beneath.
Soon enough my tropical ointments are drained as well, leaving only a tiny pool beneath misshapen rocks, in the bottom of a souvenir tumbler.
At long last pleasantly numb I stagger like a hermit crab, back to the air cooled haven that awaits my lightly basted flesh.
Cool white sheets and a dip into afternoon dreams, are next on my agenda.
Flip flops flop, to the floor and the white dunes of pillows become my oasis, that will cradle my head as I sink into, the deeper shade of oblivion