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By Sandra James
None of us had ever heard of Slip, Slop, Slap back in the
early 70s. Beachgoers baked for hours in the scorching sun, basting
themselves with lotions and oils. Hats were carelessly tossed into beach
bags without a thought.
I learnt my lesson quickly after my first teenage foray amongst the
sun-worshippers. I burned, peeled and spent most of my summer looking
like a lobster and although the king of aquatic crustaceans is highly
sought, not so the human variety who is either mocked or ignored by the
bodies beautiful. I wore thick zinc on my nose - long before it was made
fashionable in psychedelic shades by professional sportsmen - and I
watched my peers from whichever shady nook I could claim before the
heat-sensitive grannies appeared with their banana lounges, Mexican
sombreros and bottomless beach bags.
It was during my fifteenth summer that I first observed the arrival of
Genevieve Saunders from the narrow shaded area afforded by the kiosk.
Heads turned the whole length of the beach as she made her way across
the sand seemingly unaware of the attention she was causing. I was
immediately besotted. She filled my dreams, day and night from that
moment on, but I knew my place. She was an angel. She was a goddess. And
she was out of my reach.
The onset of puberty added acne to further retard my miserable social
life. My mother, in her misguided concern, forbade ice cream and other
such indulgences from my diet but the hundreds of unaffected beachgoers
who frequented the brightly-coloured kiosk provided me with plenty of
entertainment and a social network of sorts developed each time I was
called upon to help carry a tray of treats across the sand to the crowd
frolicking by the gently lapping waves.
One afternoon just before Christmas, I eagerly followed the school
cricket team captain, Duncan Morrison, with his cargo, despite the fact
that he rarely noticed my presence at other times. Genevieve lay
strategically positioned on her velour towel allowing observers the
optimum view of her impressive assets and at the same time ensuring the
best possible sun exposure to enhance her already golden tan.
I stood with my mouth agape, proffering a chocolate waffle cone, as she
casually slipped her bikini straps off her shoulders. "I don’t want tan
lines," she explained, taking the already dripping cone from my sweaty
hand. "Thanks." She smiled, head provocatively on one side, displaying a
set of perfect white teeth. "I haven’t met you before, have I? I’m
Genevieve."
"Pp…peter," I stammered, my skin, already beginning to redden after just
two minutes away from my shade haven, blushing to beetroot. A strange
tingling sensation in my groin made me grateful for once that I was not
wearing the Speedo uniform of my peers.
Genevieve smiled, then opened her mouth to comment further but an errant
beach ball lobbed and fell between us, and the ensuing retrieval by a
briefly-clad Adonis ended any further conversation. I slowly made my way
back to my slither of shade with my wildly beating heart forever
bespoken.
Genevieve. My adolescent, one-track mind could think of nothing else.
Genevieve. I repeated it slowly in my mind. Exotic and beautiful, the
perfect name for a princess. And me, Peter, one of three in my class
dubbed P1, P2 and P3 by an insensitive English teacher. Plain, boring
Peter.
My infatuation with Genevieve continued over the next three summers,
mostly from the shade of the kiosk, which was eventually extended by the
addition of a red and white striped canvas awning. She always waved and
smiled, calling "Hello, Peter" in the sweet honey tones that made my heart
skip a beat. Of course, I was only one of a swarm buzzing about her and
our conversations rarely extended beyond a couple of sentences.
On one afternoon though, I left my place in the shade and joined the
rest of the beachgoers who gathered on the sand to watch a pod of
dolphins frolicking in the sea, close to the shallows. I found myself
standing next to Genevieve. The dolphins awed the crowd with a display
that would have done Sea World proud and it seemed that everyone
collectively held their breath as they watched the impromptu show.
"Aren’t they amazing?" whispered Genevieve.
"Yes," I replied, "perhaps they are mimicking Duncan and his friends
playing on the sand." For they did remind me of Duncan with their lithe
athleticism and showy antics.
"And what about you and me, Peter? What sea creatures would we be?"
"I guess I’m an old dugong," I quickly replied for I was as placid as
the gentle giant of the sea, with no real enemies. I had comparable
looks but none of the effervescence of the precocious dolphin. "And you
would be a mermaid," I added, "exotic and beautiful."
"The ancient mariners often confused the two," mused Genevieve, "I love
dugongs; they’re solid and dependable." My heart sang but before I could
reply Duncan pushed his way through the crowd and claimed Genevieve’s
attention.
Although I was to regret it and to chastise myself many times over the
following years, my low self-confidence and inept social skills
prevented me from attempting to continue our banter at subsequent
encounters. Genevieve would often look at me quizzically as she passed
the kiosk on route to her favourite position on the beach and always
called a cheery greeting but was usually intercepted by Duncan or one of
his friends before any further conversation ensued.
One exceptionally hot afternoon three years after I first saw Genevieve
cross the sand, the sun blazed down from a cloudless blue sky while I
read a thick novel in the shade. Suddenly, Josie, the manageress at the
kiosk, called out to me, "Peter, love, I’m run off my feet…could you
take a message to Genevieve?"
I quickly crossed the burning sand to where she lay. I paused over her
for a moment, admiring her perfect golden form, accentuated by a snow
white bikini and the golden yellow of her beach towel, her eyes closed
against the searing sun. She sensed a shadow above her and squinted up
at me. "Hello, Peter." A vice gripped my heart. "What’s up?"
"I’m sorry, Genevieve. It’s a message from Josie at the kiosk. It’s your
Gran; she’s had a turn. Your Mum wants you home."
I helped her collect her things together, mindful of the stricken look
on her beautiful face, and walked with her to the edge of the esplanade.
"Thank you, Peter." Her lips brushed across my cheek and she squeezed my
hand for a second. "Thank you."
It was the last time Genevieve came to the beach that summer and by the
following season I was busy pumping petrol at a station several
kilometres away to help pay my way through medical studies. I made
infrequent visits to the beach for a waffle cone, for my acne had
cleared by then, and a few words with Josie, daring to hope I would see
a few familiar faces. Or at least, one particular face with its
unforgettable smile.
"Don’t often see any of the old crowd," Josie reminisced on my last
visit before graduation. I summoned the courage to ask about Genevieve
but before I could get the words out a family group descended on the
kiosk and my chance was gone. I never returned to the beach.
Years of sitting on the sidelines and dedicating myself to study, due
more to my sun intolerance than to a single-minded goal in life, earned
me a commendable pass and secured a position with one of the top
hospitals. I enjoyed my work, especially in surgery and built up a
thriving practice over the years. Genevieve and my teenage years at the
beach hung like a picture on the walls of my mind, often remembered, but
part of another place and time.
***
Now, I look down on the woman lying on the bed before me. Long-lashed
eyes closed to the bright operating theatre light behind me. Golden skin
highlighted by the pristine white sheets. She blinks and looks up at me.
"Hello, Peter." My heart still skips a beat. "No bad news this time,
hey?"
I slip the sheet down to reveal a dark mole on her left shoulder. Golden
brown. No tan lines.
***
© Sandra James 2008
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