Beach Comber

Every morning she would exit through the door with the seahorse handle, and pass beneath the tree where the iguana made his nest. Some mornings, she would pause, and leave him an offering of passion flower or bougainvillea, a taste floral treat. Most mornings, though, the dog would be yapping at her heels, urging her to get going now, please.

They would walk the beach, the woman with the golden-brown skin, and the small sand-colored dog, and they would pick up shells, discarding them if they weren't perfect. The woman would dip her toes in the salty ocean and commune with the sea, remembering schoolgirl fantasies of riding the back of a giant sea-horse, and using seaweed for a bridle.

After an hour, when the sun was just becoming uncomfortably warm, they would turn and walk back home, bringing with them the scent of sea and sand, and the dreams of magical ocean grottos.

We would be warm below the storm
In our little hideaway beneath the waves
Resting our head on the sea bed
In an octopus' garden near a cave *

*”Octopus's Garden,” The Beatles

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