[This story is one of ten shortlisted in the 2015 Irish Times Amateur Travel Writer competition]
Beaches. Endless, sand-sticking-to-everything, beaches. And I was trying really hard to find a cloud. Aching my head, tilting it and stretching it in all kinds of weird angles, and nothing. Just blue.
Blue that melted its way into more blue. I had never really thought about the sun being a big ball of fire, but lying there on my newly bought canga, that crazy ball of fire lit my skin alight.
I had imagined this exact moment. All through the manic journey, the near-collisions with the impatient, reckless truck drivers; through the off-key singing to the radio, through a quick fondling stop with my girlfriend (Cí), through it all I imagined the peace, the utter relaxation I would feel when lying on the beach.
I had expected an epiphany of sorts. That an answer about everything that lay ahead of me would appear. Instead, I was burning. My pale, pasty skin, wet with sweat and factor 50. And there was sand everywhere, graining at the insides of my legs. In between my toes. I would have to get used to it.
I looked at Cí, who was born to such beaches, and she was tanning; the tiniest of sweat building on her upper lip. Cerveja, cerveja, bem gelada! A husky voice of a dirty angel. Beer. Yes, please. Obrigado all the way.
Sitting back down, I forgot about the sand. I looked at how the people walked along the beach, mostly fit and tanned and fitting into the landscape like hills. Listening to all of those random words, sounds coming from the nose, breaking of syllables like the breaking of waves; all unknown.
The beer was so cold and the sun was so hot. And about a kilometre or two away lay a little island and I could see ant-like people, maybe moving towards the island, or maybe coming back to dry off upon the sand.
Young guys – surfers – passed us, all tattooed and muscled and smoking joints, and they looked Cí up and down without the slightest hint of embarrassment. Just like others would stare back at her ass later, as we walked the length of the beach. Subtlety is not a strength of the Brazilians, it seemed.
I took it as much as I could as a compliment. I took off my sunglasses to wipe at the sweat that had already made everything sticky, and the water changed its colour – brighter, stronger than before, and the island showed off its greens, and my skin looked whiter than ever before.
More beer from the man who called me gringo and winked towards Cí. The beer wasn’t even the best, but it was just so cold, so ridiculously refreshing. Cí sipped at hers; I gulped at mine. Cultural differences seemed to be hiding behind each beach-hut. And still no epiphany. No answer.
The days lay ahead as indiscernible as the beaches. We were sitting on the sand of Canasvieras, and a few short steps along the shore there would be similar sand but it would be of Praia dos Ingleses. And tomorrow would come with the same face as the day after; and then a week would come, and a month. And I had no idea what to do. To stay among the beaches and build a new life, or return, to go back where everything would be as it was.
We spent that day on the beach drinking. We ate Pasteis de camerão. We watched the sea, relentless in coming back and forth, back and forth. Never stopping.