The Beach of Torment

We have an excursion planned for this afternoon: a ride in a glass-bottom boat. At the appointed time, the group gathers by the pool area, which is very handy for me since my room is nearby. To make our way to the boat, a wheelchair comes to pick me up, even though the distance to the beach is not all that great. Yasmin takes hold of the chair, I sit down, and we’re off. 

We manage to travel about a hundred yards before the wheelchair implodes. The left footrest falls off and one wheel seizes up, causing the chair to move obstinately in a circle, round and round the same pool-side table and chairs. It wouldn’t be so bad if the chairs weren’t occupied by bewildered and mildly concerned guests, watching Yasmin and me circling like coyotes around a chicken coop. 

If that weren’t awkward enough, the orbit around the table is now accompanied by a very audible—and mocking—na na na na squeak squeak from the booby-trapped wheelchair. I seriously suspect Ramses-style sabotage, but can’t prove it. 

The only solution is to abandon the noisy wreck and continue on crutch. Someone from the hotel will surely come to collect the decrepit metal heap, and when they do, I hope they euthanize it with a flamethrower. That is, if the baffled lounging guests don’t decide to drown it in the pool first, recognizing it for the malevolent object that it is.

I crutch the rest of the way, along the paved paths of the resort. In my excitement at the forthcoming boat ride, I manage to keep well up with the rest of the group, and we arrive, en masse, at the beautiful sunny beach. I stop at the pavement and sand junction, and take a moment to admire the view, inhaling a deep breath of fresh air while my eyes roam over the grand panorama. The air smells of the ocean: the clean, crisp, unmistakeable scent of wind, water, and sea life, eternally present beneath the waves. 

The sea, marred only by slight ripples and undulations, extends to the horizon, a barely visible line between water and sky, both competing for first prize on the podium of blueness. The view of the sea is dazzling and hypnotic, yet the beach exerts a distinct pull on me, drawing me, enticing me onto its soft, velvety surface, as inviting to me as a walk-in freezer to a menopausal woman in the throes of a hot flash. 

You may have gotten the distinct impression, esteemed reader, that I love the beach and the ocean. Ever since I was a child, going to the seashore on summer holidays, I’ve loved sandy beaches. I adore walking on them, barefoot, feeling the fine sand running through my toes. Above all, I relish burying my feet in the sand, as if it were a blanket, a warm cocoon for achy, tired feet, and then, kicking all sand aside, running into the water, with the gentle waves lapping at my ankles, tickling my skin with watery coolness. There’s nothing like it. Yes, beaches are lovely, heavenly creations intended for the sole purpose of providing joy to us, fortunate souls.

But not today. Not today, by a long shot. Today, there is no heavenly creation, no joy, and I’m not in the Fortunate Souls Group. You should know that I’m not complaining because I have to do without the barefoot romp through the sandy dunes and the oceanic footbath. I need the sturdiness and stability of my one shoe-clad foot. I know that, and have accepted it. No, I’m morose because today, this beach has decided to behave like the brainchild of the Antichrist. 

Odysseus, the mythological hero of Homer’s Iliad, had the right idea. To resist the enchantment of the Sirens, goddesses who, with their songs, lured sailors to their deaths, Odysseus ordered his crew tie him to the mast of his vessel. The more he shouted to his men and pleaded with them to untie him, so enthralled by the Sirens’ voices was he, the tighter his men bound him to his ship. And so, he was saved.

In hindsight, I should have done that. I should have had Yasmin tie me to the nearest lamppost—or trash can, I’m not particular—in order to withstand the temptation of the beach and not succumb to its magical attraction. And I should have stayed there until my companions came back. That’s what I should have done.

But no. Invigorated by the view and tangy sea air, and ignorant of the drama about to unfold, I eagerly position the crutches on the sand, transfer my weight onto them, and immediately sink. This is not the coarse sand and gravel of Abu Simbel, where crutching is like walking on soft—but solid—dirt. On this dumb, stupid, and good-for-nothing-pain-in-the-butt-beach, the sand is way too fine and way too smooth; there’s a total lack of cohesion between the grains. I believe the grains actually repel one another, creating a vacuum, sucking down unsuspecting invalids. Although it’s not quicksand, this rapidsand could be just as lethal.

With my first step, I’ve lost six inches of crutch. As I try to swing my body forward on my shortened sticks, even with my knees bent, I fail to get enough clearance to prevent my bad leg from dragging on the ground and scooping up the annoying sand into my cast through the toe opening. 

By now, my crutches are deeply wedged in the sand like signposts without their sign—one which would indubitably indicate This way to Hell. Each time I pull out one crutch, the other one sinks deeper. Since trying to free them one at a time is an exercise in futility, I decide to pull both out at the same time. Perched on one leg, I tug, yank, jerk, and heave.

Reluctantly, the Devil Sand loosens its grip on the crutches. Nearly free, I exert one last powerful tug. The crutches are expelled with almost explosive force from their sand prison while I lose my balance and threaten to fall backward on my tush. I windmill my arms, now five feet long with the crutches attached, causing everyone within a ten-foot radius to dive for cover. The ungainly arm-windmilling proves successful, and I manage to remain upright and regain my composure. 

I take a second step, which turns out to be a repeat of the first. After a few minutes, I’ve established a routine of step, sink, bend legs, swing, scoop up sand, and pull out crutches; a series of moves closely mimicking those of a knuckle-walking gorilla.

By the time I get to the shore, I’ve got the pestilential sand between my toes, around my ankle, up my cast, and I swear I even have it in my underwear. My mood has taken a nosedive. I consider turning back and skipping the boat ride altogether, but since that would entail walking all the way back through the Sands of Satan, I conclude that it can’t get any worse. Ha!