I get in the water and when my feet are barely touching the sandy bottom, I take my bikini off. I hang it around my neck and see my nipples getting hard. Despite the 24 degrees, the water feels cold when you dip inn after lying in the sun for some time. It feels nice around my skin, my sex, my arms… it feels nice to swim naked, floating, letting go, and really letting go…

I peek at the shore and I contemplate the blanket of people there, talking, playing games, and carrying on with the entertainment the beach has to offer. The murmur becomes silence when I dip my head under the water and open my eyes and the only thing I hear is the beat of my heart.

Things are quite different under water: you see different, you hear different and, if you are smart enough, you feel different.

At least I always do.

If I ever have to find my north, or better said, if I ever have to look for my north, there is no better place for me than here. Because of how I feel about the ocean, because how the ocean feels me.

Already in the morning I got a little irritated when this new neighbor took my spot on the sand. Sure, the beach is not private, and sure everybody has the right to place their towels wherever they want, but they are non-locals and they will be here just for a month and they don’t know about rules of positioning and territory.

By tomorrow – latest after tomorrow – they will get the point.

…

From here things are seeing from another perspective. From here I see Mrs. A fed up with the 5 grandkids she has to take care during the weekdays because her 2 daughters work in the city. Her husband has a black belt on complaining but he never does anything to help her. Instead, he runs to the nudist beach, and everybody knows but nobody will say it loud, nevertheless, admit it.

From here you see Mrs. B putting her foot down and claiming loud that she is about to give an ultimatum to her husband, who trains a football team on her spared time and spends little time with her. She doesn’t know that is she gives the ultimatum to her husband, he will choose the dirty underwear from the football team instead of her beautiful life, but maybe she secretly knows that and she runs an invisible poll along the women to get confirmation to her doubts.

From here you see some black people walking the hot sand eagerly trying to sell fake Prada bags and pirate DVD’s, but there is nothing eager in their eyes, but hate for being under the sun hour after hour doing a crappy job, anger because we are on vacation while the only time they got to be on a boat was in one fitted for 20 and really occupied by at least 100; sadness for missing their loves ones long away in some little place in Africa.

From here you see (what was his name?) this guy on a bicycle riding really fast who yesterday flirted to annoying levels and insisted on walking me home – and who after several sarcastic comments in response, he gave up saying things a man shouldn’t say to a lady – but see how much l care.

From here you see my orange beach bag, and you see – despite the zipper is closed – a bottle of water warming up that LittleDumbass will drink anyway, a John Irving book being sadly despised and an iphone hungry for messages, calls or web updates from the love of my heart.

The sun begins to dry my skin and I feel it tingling. I lick the salt on the back of my hand and I swallow all these sensations, all these things I see from here. I dip myself again and open my eyes to see the clear sandy bottom. Things are quite different here. Here I found peace. Here, as in everywhere and every time, I think of him while I caress the back of my thighs and the nipples. They were calm a moment ago but the thought of him made them erect and hard again. In a couple of weeks it will be him, the one making not only my nipples erect, but my whole body.

Yes… here things are, and feel, different in a deep, peaceful way.

…

As for now, I absolutely love to be just an observer and see in my own territory – despite the sure feeling this may be, after all these years, not my territory anymore.