KATRINA "The Calm Before The Storm"
"Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh... Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh..." I walk along. "Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh... Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh..." the waves roll onward. "Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh... Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh..." I feel the cool water wash over my feet and between my toes as I stroll this beach.
The air is clear, the breeze cool and refreshing. The early afternoon sun is bright and warm. Its temperature fills me with energy. With the splash of each wave over my feet I feel the fine grains of sand that wash by my flesh. They seem to tickle.
"Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh... Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh..." the waves steadily roll onward. Their mellow and steady tone seems mesmerizing. Sort of like a baby's music box, carrying my thoughts and mind to another place and time.
"Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh... Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh..." my feet feel good in the water. The sand beneath massage my soles with every step as I follow this path-- just within but nearly out of the crystal -like water. As I said, every deep breath of the cool air I find so refreshing. The sun is warm, the air is clear, the sand is soothing and I find the steady roll of the waves to be so tranquilizing.
Every now and then that gentle drone of the waves is disturbed by a passing speed boat or low flying aircraft, sometimes even a shout from the public area of the beach not all that far north of here. Occasionally the breeze even catches my hair or the pages of this note book in my hand.
Although those annoying sounds eventually fade or similarly-- Turning westward solves the other inconvenience easily enough; blowing those free strands from my forehead, replacing the pages of my flimsy notebook… while offering me a fine view of the horizon over the Atlantic Ocean, to boot!
Some persons come to visit, others come to stay. For most-- simply a pleasant tropical get -away. These islands have long been associated with great wealth, a playground, of sorts, for many, many years, catering to the ultra rich and spoiled. Tourists are next in line, followed by 'gold -diggers'.
Somewhere beneath them all are the unfortunate natives of these lands. A people who, it seems by now, have had their culture torn down then redesigned and reconstructed so many times by those outside of their own society that they no longer even know who they are.
There are various country clubs, social halls, dance spots and quaint pavilions of all sorts which cater to and pamper those of wealth and power from any culture. Much of the coast is filled with the tourist getaways though. Intermingled with them, or often staying at smaller vacation spots are the "diggers"... Men and women, both young and old, whom are hoping to meet their perfect match, preferably a very wealthy one, and live happily ever after...
He hopes that she'll be swept away with his dashing good looks and fine social etiquette or she believes he'll give in to the charms of a wholesome, possibly sleazy charms of a lovely young woman. If not-- A nice fling with a millionaire isn't all that bad either! Others like myself, whether good or bad, judge for yourself, are fortunate enough to have friends or family who own property here.
It's actually been years since I've visited. So I do remember the islands... sort of. My second cousin's cottage is further south on this coast. This beach front path I'm following leads along various homes of magnificent style, design and some of enormous size.
Some properties are held by royal families, very wealthy business persons or others who own great amounts of land. Oh, quite a few oil barons too. There are many mid easterners about. Guns too! You don't want to mess with the security guards of those mid eastern oil barons or the royal families. They're armed!
"Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh -h -h -h -h..." I turn over my shoulder to watch as my foot prints are wiped clean by the waves. All evidence of my presence removed as quickly as it took for me to leave it there. "Sh -h -h -h -h... Whoosh -h -h -h -h..." the metronome like music box washes me away.
by Jeffrey Alan Boop