Here I am, pool side, in a four-star Mexican paradise, surveying the scene. Sounds of laughing, splashing kids fill the air as lounging Gringos fondle their drinks. The light blue shimmering pool winks at me. Two long curved palm trees frame a frothing waterfall, little rainbows glittering in the spray. A waiter in a Tangerine floral shirt and pith hat scurries to my side at my briefest nod. I point to my jumbo sized glass for a mango colada refill as a bikinied nubile senorita walks by, everything bouncing as she goes. What’s not to like here? Paradise imagined, promised and delivered. What’s puzzling is I’m flat out zonked to the nines bored. Something’s missing. An as yet undefined something.
It’s getting on to sunset as I cruise over to the beach cabana area and plop myself down on a lounge chair next to a resting toddler wrapped in a large blue towel. A slurping sucking sound escapes his bobbing pacifier, his little rubber engine drifting him to a land of infinite magic reserved only for the very young. I pull out my last cigar, and rotate it in and out of my mouth until it is totally baptized. I light it, take a drag, exhale and watch the smoke randomly swirl away. If he only knew, this is as good as it gets. Maybe that’s why I’m sucking on this cigar in two-two time. We all want to go back.
Four men twist, leap, laugh and curse at the whims of a bouncing volleyball. A beautiful, tanned woman, her long, dark curly hair draped over her left shoulder, sits on the sideline absentmindedly sifting sand through her fingers. A Mona Lisa smile betrays her contentment. She lazily wraps her arm around her boyfriends’ bended knee as he tenderly nuzzles her soft brown shoulder. I pick up the beach ball at my feet and run my fingers across its’ wet surface. Not much, but it’ll have to do.
I check the bar. Closed. Damn! No chance of drifting into Margaritaville here. A camera flash draws my attention. A thirty•something American looking like something out of Gentlemen’s Quarterly flashes another picture of his equally perfect goddess wearing a blue-ribboned straw hat with a matching sarong. I’m surprised anything as mundane as sand is on their sandals. “Honey, move a little to the left so I can catch the setting sun,” he asks. Strong resonant voice, too. I beat back a swell of envy, remembering the image that greeted me the last time I challenged a mirror. Aging isn’t a pretty thing.
“SHARK,” someone screeches from the waters edge. All eyes follow his stiff outstretched arm pointing to a dark fin plowing through the water just above the breaking waves. “No , “delfin”, a Spanish voice corrects. An unspoken command sends us noisily charging down the beach as if Cortez’s lost treasures had just been uncovered. Then, on cue, the gray dolphin breaks out of the water surfing the crashing wave with masterful ease and grace. At the last second, he flips back under the curling wave and emerges in deeper water. “Oh’s and ah’s punctuate the tropical evening with applause the exclamation point. We watch the fin retreat to a small dot. I make a mental note to body surf tomorrow. Got to work off the flab.
Small groups slowly, reluctantly, return to their big green umbrellas and half-finished drinks, still murmuring their wonder. The oh so perfect couple linger, watching the last remnants of the bright sun bury itself into the glittering orange skyline. The volleyball noise returns. The sleeping boy lays unmoved in continued bliss. The young lovers stroll away, hand in hand, smiling at each other in expectant pleasure. Happy chatter fills the air again.
At this precise moment, I realize the superficiality of my luxurious surroundings and that my boredom and envy is merely camouflaged whining which then vanishes as quickly as the dolphin in the deep blue sea. I now know I’ve been sniffing around the tree, but never climbing it.
I amble back to the pool area where the bar’s still open, take a deep breath and suck in my gut as a pretty lady passes by, giving her a small smile and what I hope is a cool, barely perceptible, nod. She completely ignores me. I signal a waiter as I surrender to a near by chair. If I can’t have self-pity, I can at least be delusional. And the night is still young.