Sometimes life seems like an exercise in crossing bridges; and with no particular thing holding us back on the brightly lit stage of Sunday, we hopped that train to the lusty island of South Padre.
In as much as the spectacle of emerald below us bubbles with hoards of hungry, hurried fish; the street remains unscathed by crowds and go-getters. A few wet surf boards being trolled up the roadside chapparel. The screech of a gull lopping lazily, hangin ga moment in front of the car being piloted at a crawl. A pelican leaps above the bridge as though he were gaining momentum from the dense gravity of the steel girders. The sings warn for pelican's and peligro's, birds and danger or soem awkward combination. Everything seems to share the space and the pace, nobody rushes through paradise.
Palm trees; columns of sunlight on a brittle white sand; 5 miles of beach to drive down, tires not a foot from the water, this path along the sand outpacing the road until you look around you and see nothing but shells and sunset.
Chu-cho and I typically decide the trip when we shake of the night before, running into eachothers rooms in a practiced pace, pulling on a shirt while exclaiming above our lungs that the beach is waiting. No planning involved, its only premonition and fate that will lock us into that infinitly memorable jaunt across that bridge.
Since the first run we promised eachother that the next trip will be taken with the company of some friendly girls or like minds. Chooch puts his head back and with a slight of rude gestures, explains his beach dream, necking with some nubile vixen of his appropriation as the sun drop and leaves the sand cool and full of mist.
I build my own version, and think about the tangle of flesh. Hot breath and sandy legs, salt water brushing off the extravagence of a lusty night. Breasts exposed to a quarter moon and lapped of the saline that sopps our environment. Its this goddamn island, like an aphrodisiac, erecting phalic driftwood and posting the question of sensual delight in one sentence.
We find countless entries to crab dens, dug by a diligent set of claws. They are set into the dunes, tunneling under the moist and gritty dirts. I start digging and laugh at chooch as he recoils at the touch of sharp grass on his bare foot. The crabs arent getting revenge tonight, so we laugh.
Damn the perfet sun and the perfect choking fog that adds mistique to the night, Maybe next time, I say; we will bring those beautiful loves of our lives and add to the passion that stretches miles beneath this sand float of bliss. Its a promise!, he says. And then we go back to our lives, nearly oblivious to the beauty of that moment and to the stare of a bare breast outlined in the crunch of ocean waves.
Damn that primal fount, and that lush black street that burns down through the closest bit of heaven that we as people will ever touch.
