The sea roars and the rain buckets down. We sit on our nice dry verandah and watch the waves crash on the beach. It’s such an unfamiliar bliss to have nothing to do and all day to do it in. Between random naps and watching the sea, we create elaborate and inventive meals from our basic food supply. It’s a challenge to cook without garlic and spices.
Every now and then, when there’s a break in the rain, we wander aimlessly up and down the beach, poking pieces of driftwood with our toes, examining curiously random things washed in by the sea and daydreaming. There are no shells on this beach. Perhaps they’re trapped by the reef? There’s not a lot of litter either, but there is a bit – a rubber thong, a polystyrene box and a number of plastic water bottles. It really makes me realise what nasty insidious things they are. How many water bottles are floating around in the sea I wonder? The thought makes me shudder.
I’m loving the rain. It arrived just in time as I got burnt to a crisp on the first day and am now a lovely shade of bright red. Very attractive. Sure hope I don’t peel.
We haven’t seen many living souls, but I did see a black cat strolling along in the pouring rain, casual and unconcerned. Strange behaviour for a cat.
Reading on my ipad seems to have lost its flavour. I long for a real book. There are a few left behind by previous occupants: ‘Gone Girl’ in German, two indecipherable ones in French, and two in English – ‘Drunkard’s Walk’ by Frederik Pohl (an engrossing little sci-fi tale of a man driven to suicide by mutant immortals using telepathy) and 1984. I’m reading 1984 for the fourth or fifth time. It’s just so disturbingly true that its giving me nicotine-patch infused nightmares. Did you know George Orwell was born in Bengal, India? So it says on the cover.