Naked and Wet in the Pounding Surf

She flew out of winter into summer. The February air in New York had been cold and dry, so the warm, tropical air was a striking contrast as Kathleen Canon walked out of the airport. It was not her first visit, and she had made arrangements to board the puddle-jumper, thus avoiding the jarring hour-long ride through the poverty-stricken towns.

Seated on the small plane, Kathleen caught a citrusy scent through the window as the plane gathered speed and took off. Below was a carpet of green as the plane flew over the interior hills. From an ancient transistor radio dangling by a leather strap, Johnny Nash could "see clearly now, the rain was gone." And so it was as the destination, which Conde' Nast had judged one of the finest in the Caribbean, came into view. Kathleen saw it and smiled. It was her place of relaxation, far from the pressures of Wall Street, and she intended to walk its miles and miles of white sand. And perhaps build a small sandcastle there, for peace comes dropping slow.

As the plane began its descent, the crescent of the bay became clearer. A yacht sat placidly at anchor. And there, shaded by trees, was the clothing optional beach her room overlooked. In the marble lobby, with its working waterwheel, the check-in process was swift and efficient, like few things in the tropics.

But a change of pace was what she needed -- "changes in latitudes," and perhaps shifts in her attitudes. She paused. Were the lyrics of Jimmy Buffett creeping, unbidden, into her consciousness? Kathleen hoped so, for she had been under horse latitudes of the spirit and her vacation aspiration was to make her karmic Atlas shrug. Wasn't it Allen Jackson who sang about the need to party, noting that it was" 5 o'clock somewhere"?

As Kathleen strolled to her room in her white linen dress, she noticed a tan girl in a tiny bikini on a treadmill in the open-air exercise room. As the path, covered to form a rose arbor, drew her nearer, she suddenly stopped in shock as she saw Daniel Day-Lewis lifting weights, covered with sweat in the sultry air. She gasped at the raw sensuality of the sight.

She clawed for any rational thought. No, no, it was not him. But somebody who looked like him, albeit with shorter hair. Kathleen knew from experience that many visual delights presented themselves on tropical beaches, but she was unprepared for this. As she watched the fellow lifting weights, Kathleen recalled Delbert's raspy voice singing about an "old weakness coming on strong."

And yet, with a sudden, decisive movement, Kathleen turned away. As in Roy Clark's version of the Charles Aznavour song, it seemed the love she'd known had always been the "most destructive kind." And perhaps that was why now she felt so "old before her time"? Well, not really; Kathleen was young, and determined to shake off the dark mood that had suddenly descended. She walked swiftly to her room. As she departed, she was certain, almost certain, that she heard the swarthy weightlifter speak one word. Yes, one word and one word only: "Callipygian."

Not that the weightlifter was insensitive. No, not at all. He was in touch with his inner chickdom, and he was enlightened and evolved. He felt it was key going forward to be diverse and inclusive and proactive and whatever words were trendy babble at the moment. But the word was appropriate. And, besides, it had been spoken to no audience at all, much like Ariana Huffington's speeches in California during the recall spectacle. He was certain that she hadn't heard the word he'd inadvertently spoken.

In the room, with its magnificent view of the water, Kathleen unpacked and decided to shower before dinner. She slowly slipped the dress off and let it rest on the bed. As she glanced in the mirror, her white demi-bra and thong stood out against the light brown of her skin. Yes, she looked a bit like Gwyneth Paltrow, though slightly less patrician and slightly more sensual.

Wary of the hot tropical sun, Kathleen had prepared for the vacation by visiting a tanning spa, where she covered her firm, supple body with suntan oil and basked in the warmth of the tanning bed. There was something about the warmth of the artificial light, something which made her dream that the hunky tan spa attendant would mistakenly enter her tanning room and..

Kathleen caught herself daydreaming again in the shower. The shower head, armed with more varieties of pulsating water than Heinz had ketchup, seemed like a thousand tiny hands caressing her body, each one more thorough than an IRS audit. All too soon, however, Kathleen realized that she should hurry and dress for dinner. There was room service around the clock, but she felt guilty (not to mention exploitive and colonialist) using it because of the relentless courtesy of the staff.

Kathleen knew that semi-dress or casual would be fine, depending on where she wanted to dine. Feeling casual, she opted for the buffet, and took a white silk blouse, a white thong, and a matching sarong from the leather suitcase. In a strong light, the sarong would be somewhat transparent, but in the soft evening light it would be fine.

At the buffet, while peering, transfixed, at the wide variety of fruits, Kathleen began to wonder if Jimmy Buffett had ever been to a buffet. With such thoughts in mind, Kathleen was startled to bump into an arm. Well, not just an arm. An arm attached to a person. Indeed, attached to the weight-lifter she had noticed earlier. But surely he would be a lout, a mere physical presence. And then she blushed while noticing the huge bulge in his cargo shorts. She fought the urge, but yielded and said: "Is that a Proust paperback in your pocket or are you glad to see me?"

He smiled at her remark and asked her name. "Kathleen Canon," she replied.

"That must be a snap to spell," he said. Hum, could it be a photographic remark? Could he be deep? She decided to ask: "Are you deep, or is that Proust paperback merely an affectation?" He laughed, assuring her that he was as deep as the Rio Grande during a dry spell.

As they began to chat, she noticed that his teeth were like stars, but she wondered if they were bright and came out at night. But no, his teeth were not from the TV show "Extreme Makeover." Nor were they choppers. They were naturally bright. Or was it that his tan was so dark? Was it what Max Planck had called the Julio Iglacias Effect, whereby a dark tan makes teeth seem white? She felt subtly Politically Incorrect for wondering, and again made a mental note to feel added guilt for the oppression of indigenous peoples worldwide. But first, there was dinner.

And what a dinner. She'd have sworn her palate was jaded from too many New York brassieries, but the piquant flavors of mango salsa paired with fresh swordfish made her tongue tingle. Her tongue wasn't the only part tingling either, inasmuch as the Daniel Day-Lewis lookalike was seated in close proximity. In fact, close enough for her to feel the palpable aura of mystery that enveloped him like a miasma of Old Spice. She thought she noticed him covertly watching her, also, and wanting to observe the effect, she let her sarong fall open to reveal a glimpse of tanned thigh. With a flash of his opalescent teeth and a lift of his glass, he acknowledged her, and she was satisfied that she'd made enough of an impression for the evening. Rising from the table, she ignored the tinny rhythm of the ska band and walked out into the cut-stone courtyard.

As she gazed down into a shallow pool filled with koi and waterlillies, she thought first of Giverney. But then, as her thoughts drifted to the tanning spa attendant, the weightlifter, and the showerhead, the pulsating blood in her veins seemed to reach a fever pitch. Though she'd looked forward to languid days sunning on the beach where she marked the time only by the reflections on the water, she felt like flinging her sarong to the winds and dashing out onto the moonlit beach in only her thong. What would the sultry Caribbean night feel like against her fevered skin? With the stars shining up above her, would the night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"? Kathleen felt an exquisitely percing need to know. She stepped into the dark shade of the building and untied her sarong, hanging it on a low tree limb.

She walked toward the pounding waves, as if in a trance, unbuttoning her blouse as she went. By the time she'd reached the water, she was completely naked except for the thong, lost in the shadows of the overhanging banyan trees. She waded out to her knees, her back to the resort, and dipping her hands in the warm water, splashed it onto her face, her breasts, and her stomach. She surrendered to the surf and felt completely liberated from the mundanities of her life. She was ready to float away (not literally) on a tide of pleasure. Perhaps tomorrow, a body wrap and windsurfing. But tonight, that old weakness still felt strong.

Suddenly, Kathleen became aware that the others had drifted out of the buffet area, out of the restaurant, and were strolling down the beach to take in a bit of the night air. Glancing down, she realized that the water had made her white thong all but transparent, and she had left her sarong in the courtyard and her blouse on the sand. On the bright side, her Brazilian Wax was freshly and professionally done. Still, it was an awkward situation. Certainly, the resort had a clothing-optional beach, but she was far below that area of the beach, and she was concerned that it might not be good manners to first meet so many of her future beachmates in such a state.

Just as she realized the fix she was in, she saw that the Daniel Day-Lewis clone was one of the beachwalkers, a lone figure against the light, no doubt a traveler from an antique land. Behind him, the lone and level sands stretched far away. Swiftly, she slipped under the water and swam for 20 feet, emerging next to him. He turned, smiled, understood the situation, and went to retrieve her sarong and blouse.

She expressed her gratitude for his chivalry, but could not help but notice a faint glitter in his eyes as her watched her don the blouse, watched her sarong draped over the now-transparent thong. She was grateful to be more appropriately attired. But his glance conveyed something, she was sure of it. It was a look worthy of Rhett Butler, she thought. Not Ashley. On vacation, perhaps a Rhett would fill the bill.

Feeling grateful, she invited him to her terrace. "From the Terrace," wasn't that a movie from a John O'Hara novel? No matter, the night air was warm and embracing as they talked. Feeling a bit decadent, they phoned room service for two slices of cheesecake. They took just one bite each of the cheesecake, not wanting to have atherogenic myocardial infarctions on vacation, and savored the heavenly taste. Kathleen offered him a vitamin E to counteract the cheesecake and he gratefully accepted.

The heat of the day was dissipating as they strolled down the clothing-optional part of the beach and made their way up to the nude pool and sat in the chairs by the refreshment stand. Looking over, they noticed two couples already in the nude hot tub. Well, the hot tub wasn't nude, but the couples were. Glancing at each other, they walked over, deposited their clothing, and turned toward the hot tub.

He walked down the steps first, turned, and extended an arm to Kathleen. As she stepped down, in the glow of the underwater hot tub lights, he first saw her totally nude. She was tan and svelte, and her nipples seemed swollen in the dim light. As she descended, the only trace of pubic hair he saw was a tiny triangle. The tuft was tiny. Not Tufts University, which was large. But he had not attended Tufts University, and his thought of it was fleeting indeed, limited only to wondering whether the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy was there. The other couples looked up too as Kathleen's supple body lingered on the steps. They nodded polite greetings, but Kathleen could feel the burning gazes as the men watched her descend.

Kathleen and her Day-Lewis clone reclined on an underwater bench in the hot tub, one couple on either side of them. The conversation was cordial, yet after a while Kathleen noticed that no hands were visible above the water. The other couples were on vacation too, and their inhibitions had been relaxed by sun and sand and tropical drinks. Gradually, Kathleen realized that the couples, seduced by the warm night air and the gentle jets of the jacuzzi, were perhaps caressing each other under the water.

Kathleen whispered this report to the Daniel Day-Lewis clone and he merely smiled inscrutably. But it was all too much for Kathleen, a sort of sensory overload. She wanted her new friend, but not within eyesight of other couples. It was too much, too soon. But then, as fate would have it, one couple departed. And then the other. And then they were alone in paradise, the stars shining brightly overhead. Kathleen looked out and saw that the beach was now empty. She pulled his arm, and they walked down to the beach.

She felt intoxicated by the moonlight, the waves crashing on the rocks, and the hint of impending passion. Though conversation seemed for the moment superfluous, she engaged in some light chat with the Daniel Day-Lewis clone and learned that he was Greek, though bearing no gifts. A good thing, she though, for she was prone to look a gift horse in the mouth. She told him that she thought she had heard him comment on her appearance as she had walked about from the fitness area earlier that day, and he confirmed it. She told him about her stairstepper routine at the health club, a routine that had made her hips firmer than Ahhnold's biceps in his prime. Aha, she thought. His heritage explained his grasp of the word "callipygian," with its Greek roots.

His name was Alcander, though he went neither by Al or Candy, nor any dimunitive form thereof. His ethnic background was evident in his dusky skin and the dark hair that covered his chest, not so much Albert Brooks as Pete Sampras. However, the hair, he explained regretfully, was the barrier that kept him from engaging in the tradition of fire-dancing when he was vacationing. In his early adolescence, before puberty set in, he had been the renowned prodigy of fire-dancing, his name legend throughout the islands. Michael Flatley was "The Lord of the Dance," but Alcander was "The Lord of the Fire Dance." Kathleen could well believe it. Alcander moved with an innate grace that made her feel lissome and loose as well. She stopped walking, turned toward him, and he stopped speaking in mid-sentence, his brown eyes meeting hers in an intense and soulful gaze.

He bent his lips to hers and put his hands on her waist, pulling her close. As she pressed against him in a torrid kiss, she felt a primal pulsing from deep in her loins, in time with the rhythmic beat of the band in the distance. They sank to the sand at the edge of the surf, in an embrace that might have appeared cliched had they stopped to think about it. But with no intrusive cinematographer nearby to sneer and bark directions, they were unconcerned with whether they resembled the famous scene from From Here to Eternity, or for that matter, a Sports Illustrated swimsuit shoot minus the swimsuits.

Kathleen felt it. She felt the emotion, as Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr kissed, with the world poised on the precipice of World War II. It reminded her of other novels of doomed love, like Arch of Triumph. It reminded her of Rick in "Casablanca," standing in the train station in the rain, understanding the futility of it all in a world poised on the brink of war. It was a different era, and World War II was now a party of history, but Kathleen felt herself falling, down, down, down, into a burning dance of fire.

Water seemed to be everywhere, as the waves caressed her svelte, supple form. And yet the flames kept burning. Kathleen arched upward, against his muscled body. He responded by trailing wet kisses down her neck, moving downward until she gasped with need and pleasure. As the water crashed against their melded bodies, she felt any vestige of her reserve washing away with it. She was as free and unrestrained as the undulating waves, as clear in her resolve to savor the moment as the blue water of the lagoon.