(Mount Lavinia Hotel and the Indian Ocean.)
The waves on Mount Lavinia Beach are amazingly powerful.
So full of force in fact that I have decided with some help from the aforementioned waves that it is completely hopeless to try to appear graceful or appealing and that I should certainly abandon all hope of appearing even remotely sexy or goddess-like whilst standing on the picturesque golden sand with foaming white surf rushing around my feet while gazing into the horizon with a far-away look in my eyes.
Getting knocked onto your back while still only a few inches into the water is not terribly picturesque, nor is scrambling frantically on one’s hands and knees up out of the white foam while yet another traitorous waves decides to rush at you from the side and send you flying in the other direction and yet another tries to pull you out to sea so what was to be an impressive show of quiet grace and beauty ends up a manic struggle for survival, gulping down mouthfuls of salty water and clawing at the sand, white limbs flailing helplessly.
Actually, in spite of my presence, the beach is an incredibly tranquil place. The sound of the ocean is hypnotic and beautiful.
The first morning that we walked down the stone stairs to the beach, there was not a soul in sight, just sand and palm tress and fallen coconuts bobbing in the tide. The second day, after Per and I had both enjoyed the warm water for awhile, he came over to me, a contemplative look on his face and said seriously that he was glad the waves were so strong here, really glad, because it meant that they knocked me over and so in effect, he didn’t need to worry about having to dunk me in the water himself.
As any good wife would, I nodded sagely, glad that during this rather busy time in our lives, that one responsibility at least had so mercifully been lifted from his shoulders.