2.71 " I Do Not Think, I Know!"

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71. On the Beach

Jefferson shows us a beach he calls Jim Crow and I ask who that is. Ali laughs. “Only for people of color,” she explains and Jefferson smiles. He speaks to us like the great actor John Barrymore but when talking with the Whites he uses tranquilizing Amos'n Andy talk. We learn he is Creole, real name Toussaint, but ‘Jefferson’ makes the Whites more manageable.

   “You see, you are what they call ‘misgene’ – man and woman companion of differing race so the whites-only beach is not allowed you. Do you mind coloreds-only?”
   Of course I do not. Americans do not realize that we Japanese – even though our society is finely attuned to social distinctions – are multiracial, being a mix of brown Malay, yellow Chinese & Korean, hairy Caucasoid Ainu, recent sprinkle of European and even a tinge of Afro-American. So we do not structure on color lines. 

Sand in our shoes signals beach. To locate us you should picture a peninsula, Florida, jutting south into Atlantic Ocean from the southeast continental corner of U.S.A. with Miami Beach a thin-line island along the east coastline. Then zoom to a small beach road a block east of Clara's with wind-ruffled palms, sand & sea, Ali & me, and sound of surf running to the B.

   The beige beach we walk onto has metal fences north and south to give Mr. Jim Crow a hundred feet of shoreline. Now, 11 AM, Friday, off-season and on the coloreds-only beach we are sole souls not yet at sea.

   Jefferson waves good-bye. “Enjoy.  Madame is serving lunch, 1:30.”

  Ali has blanket and towels and after laying them she runs to surf, shouting “Last one in’s a Stinky Pinky!” I wear a 1930's swimsuit. To its designer, not only a glimpse of stocking must have been shocking but even male breasts. So the suit is brown trunks and matching top, while Ali’s swimsuit is one-piece shoulder-strap and skirt frilly pink with white-fringe above-knee hem. I stride into the white flecked surging surf up to my chest. The water is cold. I plunge into a wave and come up swimming away from beach, Ali on my right.
   Salt tang and sharp sea smell excites me. I glance up at a brilliant aquamarine sky with one little white cloud. Ali swims close shouting “An’t it wunnerful?” and kisses my left earlobe. As I tread water I notice a small blue bubble body floating on sea surface with trailing tentacles partly submerged. Suddenly, shock-like pain runs up right arm. Despite oriental stoicism I cry “Ouch!”
   Ali shouts “Portugee Man a War! Get out a the water, quick!” We stagger out of surf and Ali lays me on blanket and massages to get circulation going. That and Sol’s warming rays dissolve the discomfort.

Later, I lie on my chest with legs stretched, toes into sand, arms folded & crossed, elbows bent and backs of hands overlapping and pillowing right side of face. Ali lies to my left, facing me, and our noses and lips barely touch while a breeze caresses our backs, and sea fragrance and salt tang combine with the quiet to create contentment.
   Is this happiness or is this happiness? Remembrance of extreme pleasure ought to be marked for recall in bad times. Why? Because remembering that one’s body is capable of a reward with so much pleasure is a good incentive to keep on living and thus a preventive of suicide.
   Ali nudges me. “Hon, Madame’s lunch! Lyes git!”

We trudge back to Clara's, sand in our shoes.
   I do not think, I know!   I am going to like it here.
To read next, click 2.72 A Lunch to Remember

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