Sunscreen & Coconuts

by Eliza Lentzski

I paused in my descent when my flippers entered the water. The ocean was cool around my ankles. “Wait,” I called to the boat worker. “How will we know if the current shifts?”

  The man softly chuckled as I eased myself into the water. “Oh, you’ll know.”

  I tread in place while I let my body adjust to the temperature of the water. All around me, the other tourists floated on the water’s surface with their faces submerged underwater. Beyond an errant splash of someone’s flipper, the ocean was even and calm.

  Even though she was wearing a neon bathing suit, I couldn’t identify which of the floating bodies was Racy. All of the half-submerged bodies looked the same. I experimentally dipped my face into the water to test the seal on my mask. When no water leaked inside, I plunged myself deeper into the foreign environment.

  I concentrated on my breathing and listened to the deep and even rhythms of air coming in and out of my snorkel tube. It was like the rest of the world had been put on mute and only my breath and the thumping of my heart existed. When I finally got my breathing under control and my heart stopped pounding in my chest, I was able to really look around and enjoy my surroundings.

  The sand settled and my vision cleared. I kept my arms tucked tight against my sides so I wouldn’t accidentally touch a fish or its coral habitat, and moved my feet and legs in moderate motions to not kick any of the other snorkelers.

  Visibility had been limited from the boat, but once I had my head underwater, I was able to see clearly to the uneven ocean floor. Finger-like coral stuck out of the sandy bottom, reaching up to the swimmers above. Other rounded coral with geometric patterns on their surface looked like underwater brains. Bright schools of small fish simultaneously darted in one direction and then the next.

  Someone swimming beside me grabbed my wrist. The majority of her face was obscured by her facemask, but the one-piece blue suit told me it wasn’t Racy. She waved her free hand under the water and pointed off in the distance. My eyes followed in the direction of her hand to see a large sea turtle floating a few yards from us. I’d only ever seen them in aquariums, never in the wild. The woman gave me a thumbs up and her mouth smiled around her mouthpiece. I felt obliged to return the gesture.

  I continued to float around on my own, admiring the colorful sea life. I saw giant starfish bigger than my face, crabs that scuttled sideways along the ocean floor, and a variety of fish I’d never seen before.

  Mindful that I couldn’t stay in the water forever, I lifted my facemask out of the water. The volume around me seemed to have picked up, but I dismissed the loud voices as only sounding as such in comparison to the silent sea. I began to swim back towards the boat when I noticed the staff on the catamaran waving for us to return. I waited my turn to use the ladder at the back of the boat to pull myself back onboard. As much as I’d enjoyed the underwater views, I was more than happy to be getting back to semi-solid ground.

  I was surprised to see so many of the others had already re-boarded. I’d thought I’d be the last one in the water and the first one out. I scanned the immediate area in search of Racy, but didn’t see her. Her absence didn’t worry me; I’d lost track of her in the water, but the boat wasn’t so big that we wouldn’t find each other once again on board.

  I returned my flippers and snorkel mask to the man who’d assigned them to me.

  “Did they get you?” he asked.

  “Pardon?” I didn’t know what he was asking me.

  “The currents changed,” he said. He gestured to some of the passengers who were back on the boat. “A lot of people got stung, so they got out of the water early.”

  “Oh!” I exclaimed. “No, I didn’t feel anything.”

  “That’s some luck,” he noted. “I think about half of you got stung.”

  I didn’t dwell on my good fortune for long before I began to search for Racy in earnest. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find her near the boat’s bar. Her hair was wet and a beach towel was draped over her shoulders. She had a bottled beer in either hand. The beer in her left hand was pressed against her cheek.

  I sidled up beside her. “Double-fisting?”

  She wordlessly handed me one of the bottles—the beer that had been pressed to her face. I gasped when I was what the beer had been covering; a swollen, angry welt marked her cheek.

  “My God. What happened?” I reached for the swollen area on her face, but she winced and turned away.

  “Go ahead and say it,” she grumbled.

  “Say what?” I asked.

  “That you told me so.”

  “Oh no. Did a jellyfish sting you?” I worried.

  Racy nodded and returned her bottled beer to her face like an ice compress.

  “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

  “I don’t know. How bad does it look?”

  I didn’t immediately respond, but apparently my facial reaction was all the answer Racy needed.

  “Of all the places, too,” she moaned. “Why’d that little fucker have to sting my face? I’m gonna look like a mutant for the rest of vacation.”

  “It’s not so bad,” I tried to assure her.

  “It feels like I got branded, right across my face,” she complained.

  “Do you need something? Can I get you anything?” I asked.

  “Will you pee on my face? I heard that makes the stinging go away.”

  Yet again, the horrified look on my face answered for me.

  + + +

  The little metal buckle on my beach bag felt like a branding iron where it pressed into my exposed skin. My flip-flops dug up shallow sand and sprayed the backs of my legs as I abandoned the resort’s oceanfront property for a poolside palapa. Accumulated perspiration made the granules stick to my skin. I’d spent too much time uncovered on the beach and everything I’d brought down to the ocean’s edge—including my unprotected skin—felt like it was on fire.

  I was on my own for the first time of our vacation. After returning from our early morning excursion, I’d left Racy in our hotel room to sleep off the snorkeling and her jellyfish sting. I’d offered to stick behind, but she’d reminded me that this was my vacation, too, and that I wasn’t beholden to take care of her at the expense of enjoying myself. I’d felt a modest amount of guilt, but I’d also paid a premium for this vacation and I had every intention of getting my money’s worth.

  The pool area was relatively crowded that afternoon. The resort boasted a private beach, but the ocean bottom was rocky so most swimmers took advantage of the large pool. I found an empty lounger close to my spot from the previous day and set up camp with my bottled water and paperback novel.

  Despite my earlier insistence to Racy that all I wanted to do was read my book by the pool this vacation, I didn’t immediately dive into the novel. Instead, aided by my dark sunglasses, I took my time to check out my surroundings—namely the other people spending time by the pool.

  Mixed-sex couples and groups of friends sat around the kidney-shaped pool in various stages of undress. I might have been in a foreign country, but so many Americans, or at least white Westerners surrounded me, it was like I’d never actually left the country. Everywhere I looked I saw too much pale skin, awkward tattoos, and beer bellies. I anticipated that the never-ending landscape of ugly Americans might put a damper on my tropical vacation.

  My investigation of the environment stopped on a young woman as she entered the pool area. Her short hair piqued my interest immediately. Black roots were visible beneath short white-blonde hair slicked back from her face. Unlike the other pool guests, she didn’t have a beach bag or even a towel. Her skin was tan, but not overly so, yet there were no visible tan lines where her waist met her red board shorts or near the skin surrounding the strings of her flimsy blue bikini top. I wondered how long she’d been on vacation.

  Confident that my eyes were hidden behind my dark sunglasses, I watched her stalk around the perimeter of the pool. Her movement reminded me of a jungle cat—deliberate and slow, yet confident. She sa
t at the edge of the pool and dipped her heels into the aqua-blue water. Her mirrored reflective sunglasses made it impossible to tell where she was looking. She arched her back and leaned her weight on her arms. She had the flattest stomach I’d ever seen. It couldn’t have occurred naturally. She must not have even looked at bread.

  Looking at her was making me hungry. Luckily at this all-inclusive resort, wait staff was never too far away. I’d denied myself alcohol and my favorite fatty foods in the weeks leading up to the trip so I wouldn’t feel completely wretched in my one-piece bathing suit, but now that I was actually on vacation I was prepared to drink all of the drinks and eat all of the food.

  The longer I stared at the woman unnoticed, the more a different kind of hunger swept over me. I squeezed my thighs together and shifted on the poolside chaise. It had been a while since I’d been on a date—an unreasonably long while—which I only had myself to blame for. When I’d last gone to my OB/GYN, she’d asked if I was sexually active. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d actually had sex; “define ‘active,’” had come out of my mouth before I could suppress the truth.

  I lived in a big enough city that finding a steady girlfriend shouldn’t have been an exercise in futility. It’s not like I was the only single lesbian in Boston. I was Out to my family and friends and co-workers. It simply came down to effort. I hadn’t put myself out there as if expecting the right girl to fall into my lap was going to happen without any work. I put effort into everything I did, from managing my classroom to running the neighborhood rummage sale. But when it came to finding a girlfriend, I’d become complacent and lazy. It was unlike me.

  I could have unobtrusively gawked at the woman all day, but my stomach eventually reminded me that I hadn’t eaten. I abandoned my lounger at the pool for a bar stool at the Thirsty Coconut—the tiki bar at the edge of the resort’s property that Racy and I had explored the day before. I considered going back to the room to check in on Racy and her jellyfish sting, but selfishly I knew if I returned to the room, I’d probably be there for the rest of the day. The snow would soon be flying in Boston; I needed to take advantage of Curaçao’s perfect weather while I still could.

  I planned on indulging in plantain chips and a strawberry margarita and actually starting my book, but before I could lose myself to the author’s words, I felt the presence of a new body in my proximity. Most of the other barstools were available, yet this person had chosen to sit directly beside me. I no longer had the benefit of my sunglasses, so I peered at the man with my peripheral vision. Unremarkable face. Thinning hair on top. Khaki pants and a polo shirt. I could already tell he liked golfing on the weekends and bullshitting for his job.

  I heard him clear his throat, and I readied myself for the worst.

  “Don’t I know you from some place?”

  “No,” I immediately rejected.

  The man snapped his fingers. “You were on the plane from Boston.”

  I turned slightly on my barstool to better appraise the man. Middle-aged white men tended to all look the same to me, so he could have been my obnoxious seatmate or any other of the million facsimiles taking up space.

  “I guess I was.”

  I loathed meeting people on vacation. People were never genuine when meeting strangers they’d never see again. They bragged about their wealth, and their amazing jobs and homes, and their wonderful, accomplished children who definitely weren’t gay.

  “Enjoying yourself so far?” he asked.

  I hummed in the affirmative and returned my attention to my book.

  “What brings you to the island?”

  “Vacation.” I kept my head tilted towards my book.

  “What do you do in Boston?”

  I turned the page. “I’m a teacher.”

  “What grade?” he pried.

  “I’m sorry.” I wasn’t. “I don’t mean to be rude.” Yes, I did. “But I just really want to read my book.” So go bug someone else.

  I somehow remembered to smile.

  The man held up his hands in retreat. “Message received, loud and clear.”

  I doubted he knew the full extent of my misanthropy, but he at least had the good sense to vacate the barstool next to me.

  I somehow managed to get through another margarita and two more chapters of my book before I sensed that someone else occupied the formerly vacant seat beside me. There were plenty of other places to sit in the bar; I couldn’t imagine what made that particular stool so popular.

  “Did you just get to the island?”

  No. Not this again.

  I pushed out an exhausted sigh, and I nearly spit out an ugly response as I turned on my barstool, but somehow my brain was able to register that the questioner’s voice belonged to a woman and not a man. The chilly retort remained caught in my throat as I identified the person who’d addressed me. I swallowed my complaint when I realized it was the woman from the pool whom I’d been admiring earlier.

  She was even more stunning up close. She wore no makeup because she didn’t need to. Her white-blonde hair was still damp from the pool, shorter on the sides and longer up top. Light blonde eyebrows and long, dark eyelashes framed her grey-green eyes. Her cheekbones were so high and so defined they looked razor sharp. Her thin lips curled up at the edges in a perpetual knowing smile. An oversized, Hawaiian shirt covered her torso. The teal top was open and unbuttoned in the front to reveal her bikini top, but I had a hard time moving past her face to appreciate anything else.

  She hadn’t ordered a drink, but the ponytailed bartender set a bottle of beer and a lime wedge on the cocktail napkin in front of her. They didn’t exchange words, but acknowledged each other with a curt bobbing of heads. The woman took a long pull from her golden-toned beer.

  “You got a little color on your shoulders,” she observed with a nod. “Careful or that’ll turn into a wicked sunburn.”

  I absently rubbed my palm over my exposed shoulder. “I went snorkeling,” I said in lieu of explanation.

  She nodded sagely. “You can always tell the new tourists. They look like lobsters by the third day.”

  I stumbled on my response. “It’s my second day.”

  Her pale eyebrows lifted comically. “Oh! So you’re ahead of schedule. Overachiever, much?”

  She’d framed it as a question, but I doubted she expected an answer. I didn’t quite know what else to say, but that didn’t seem to matter to this woman.

  She stood up abruptly and tossed a few American dollar bills onto the bartop. “Thanks, Jimmy,” she called to the ponytailed bartender.

  He acknowledged her with a brief wave before returning his attention to the soccer game on the TV behind the bar.

  “How long have you been here?” I felt compelled to ask as the woman began her retreat.

  “Seven years.” She grabbed her beer and turned to me before her exit. “It’s been a very long vacation.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning, Racy and I started our day at the resort’s buffet restaurant. The eatery was open most hours and rotated the food selection from breakfast to lunch to dinner. I had my full plate at the table, but Racy was still foraging for her breakfast at the buffet, so I took a moment to send a quick text message: How are things?

  It was early, but I knew she was probably awake. She’d always been an early riser, even on the days when she could sleep in.

  The three dots that indicated an incoming response appeared and a picture, in addition to a text, appeared on my screen: Still alive.

  My ex-girlfriend and current house-sitter, Bethany, had taken a selfie with my fish tank. Her lips were pursed and pushed forward, not in an attempt to appear trendy, but more likely to look like a puckered-up fish.

  I considered taking a picture to send back, but Racy returned to the table before I could.

  “Nuh uh. No phones on vacation,” she chastised. “You made the rule yourself.”

  I guiltily tucked my phone back into my beach bag. “Sorry. I just w
anted to check in.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse—drunk texting or vacation texts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re in a gorgeous location, surrounded by all these honeymooning couples,” she said, waving her fork in the air, “and you’re wishing you were here with anyone but your straight best friend. It makes you want to be part of a couple again. Tandem bikes. Two-person sea kayaks. Snuggling in a hammock.” She pointed the tines of her fork at me. “I know how you work.”

  “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t rather be on this vacation with a cute boy,” I accused.

  I didn’t bother to defend myself because I knew she was right, but I could try to turn the tables on her.

  A peculiar smile appeared on her face. “I don’t need a boyfriend. I’ve got a date tonight.”

  I paused mid-bite with my fork still hovering in the air. “What? I’m not enough company for you?”

  I tried to image when that kind of exchange might have happened. With the exception of her jellyfish sting, we’d been inseparable since arriving. Had she made plans with one of those annoying men from the tiki bar while I’d been in the bathroom? Had she met someone on the snorkeling boat? Was that before or after the jellyfish sting?

  “No offense, but there’s things I’d like to do on this trip that you and I aren’t compatible for.”

  I flashed her my winningest smile. “I’ve offered before, you know.”

  She laughed and nudged me beneath the table. We flirted occasionally, but it was always innocent and harmless.

  Despite the rules I’d apparently made about technology on our trip, Racy produced her phone and began tapping at the screen. “There’s an app for people on vacation. You say where and when you’re traveling, and it hooks you up with locals or other people on vacation looking for the same thing.”

  “That’s ridiculous. And unsafe,” I felt compelled to add. “You should never post online when you’re out of town. Robbers could see that and case your house.”

  “Save the lecture, Mom,” Racy said, not looking up from her phone. “I got a date for you, too. She seems like a really sweet girl.”