SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE

One week into our Down Under adventure and I’m feeling a growing connection to the young woman I was before kids and mortgage and life in the burbs morphed me into a responsible adult.  Odd that I never noticed the ‘dul’   in adult before.  Hmmmm, maybe that’s what’s been nagging at me lately? Am I doomed to become just another dull old lady? Or can this month of travel rekindle my true essence?

I’m glad I wasn’t silly enough to think I could, or should, travel like I did in my twenties.  Good riddance to those youth hostel days.  There’s nothing remotely tempting about sharing a bathroom at the end of the hall with an international group of rowdy college kids returning from a night on the town just as I make the first of many late night trips to the loo.

Instead, we are housesitting in a 55 and over community. It’s modern and friendly, with smiling strangers waving to us at every turn. It’s convenient to the shops, restaurants and, most importantly, the beach. There are dance lessons and trivia nights and aqua volleyball.

But nothing screams senior citizens like hand rails in the shower and extra wide doorways for wheelchairs. Surely I’m not yet one of  “them”.  Determined to ignore the fact that one day I may actually need those accommodations,  I lace up my sneakers and set a brisk pace on the shady bush trail to the beach.

Twenty minutes, and just a few mosquito bites later, the path clears and we catch our first glimpse of a stunningly beautiful sight. Waves roll onto shore and crash onto the rock cliffs at each end of a small, deserted beach.  The powdery sand squeaks under our feet as we head to a spot in the shade. Gone are the days of sun worshipping for hours with baby oil slathered on to maximize the tanning rays.  Now it’s maximum strength sunscreen and chasing the shade as the sun dips behind the high cliff at our backs.

Over the years, I’ve grown accustomed to comfy beach loungers lined up in neat rows while  attentive waiters tempt me with tropical drinks. At the very least, I’ve relied on beach chairs for back support. I can’t remember the last time I spread out a towel in the sand for a day at the beach.

My knees creak and scream that they are not the same as they once were.  Getting up from my towel has become a four step process that isn’t very pretty from any angle.  I push through the pain. What choice do I have?  Deserted beaches do not come equipped with the comforts of large resorts.  It’s a trade off I’m just going to have to accept.

Gradually, I succumb to the simple beauty of two beach towels, lying side by side in the warm sand.  Relaxing to the sound of waves breaking on the rocks, I slowly, deeply, inhale and exhale to the rhythms of the beach.   Sea birds calling. A gentle breeze blowing.  I’m once again that 17 year old lazing in the shade of the lifeguard stand at Rockaway Beach. I’m that 28 year old gazing up at the single palm tree on a tiny motu in French Polynesia, contemplating my good fortune that I am not among the masses fighting for a seat on the New York subway.  In my mind at least, not much has changed.  And then…

“Excuse me, ma’am”

Ma’am? Who is this young man standing over me and who is he talking to?  Ma’am?  Seriously?

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but is this the nude beach?”

Slowly sitting up, my glorious memories recede as the years cruelly drag me back to the present.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Would you mind if I …?”

What am I, the prude police? Just because my hair is the same color as his gran’s?

“No… of course… not at all.”

Go for it, I want to scream. You won’t be young and beautiful forever. This too shall pass. Grab it while you can. And don’t for a minute think you invented skinny dipping. Oh, the stories I could tell… moonlight in the Caymans, late afternoon on the Hawkesbury river, sunset in Fiji…

The sun continues to dip behind the cliff, elongating the shade almost to the water’s edge. Time to pack up our towels and head back to the retirement village.

Luckily for me, the man at my side, the one I share so many memories with, has been aging right along with me. Without our reading glasses, wrinkles blur and fade.  I may be Ma’am to some but, to him,  we’re still that couple biking over Diamond Head and backpacking through Europe.  There are cold beers in the fridge and salty chips on the patio, waiting for our nightly toast to the end of the day.  How nice to find that some things never change.