Chapter 27
To: Sophie Smalls
RE: Hello!
Dear Sophie,
I won’t lie, the last place I imagined you messaging me from is a cruise.
Maybe after attending some couples’ tennis lesson, or a candle-making class, but not this.
It seems a tad extreme, but nothing ventured, I suppose, especially given your somewhat lukewarm start.
Hats off to you, I’m officially invested.
Alex
Disclaimer: I am in no way responsible for any loss of money or sanity during this trip. I just authored an article.
This man is prompt with his replies. I like that, even though he’s already trying to distance himself from what could be a disaster. I don’t blame him.
As the ship arrives at the Isola Bianca pier on Tuesday morning, our group gathers in the auditorium, forty people in total booked on our first beach excursion to Olbia, Sardinia.
The other tours to the vineyards and historic parts of the island would undoubtedly be more educational but were fully booked by those who prefer sightseeing and culture instead of lazing around on your arse in the sand.
As Brian explained, I could have booked all these excursions through an independent company, but as I have no idea what I’m doing, I’m happy sticking to the cruise line group trips for now.
There’s safety in numbers and at least I know they’ll get me back in time.
I do not need the embarrassment of speed running up the pier where a ship full of waiting passengers mercilessly mock me. I watch YouTube, I’ve seen it happen.
In preparation, I’ve worn my swimming costume under my dress, having no idea where I’d change once out of the ship.
Are there secure areas to change? Do people just hide behind towels and wiggle out, like I used to do on the beach as a kid?
I feel being pre-prepared is a sensible option, except for the fact I’ll need to pee at some point, causing great fuss and brief full-body nudity in the toilet cubicles while I wrestle my swimsuit off.
Towel, sun cream, book and euros in my beach bag, we leave the ship, me donning my straw-effect sun hat and sunglasses.
I also bring along my Galaxy Pods. Some Faith Hill or Carrie Underwood feels like appropriate beach music.
As much as I love Johnny Cash, I’m not sure ‘I Hung My Head’ or ‘Walk the Line’ is the cheeriest holiday soundtrack.
The bus to La Cinta beach is a forty-five-minute drive away and collects us outside the pier.
I don’t know any of the other passengers but sit beside a younger woman who smells like cinnamon.
I’m not sure if this is intentional but I’m not complaining.
It’s like sharing my space with a suntanned cake.
The air con isn’t great but we’re all suitably dressed for the weather.
The journey there is stunning, which makes me feel better about missing the other tourist sites, although I’m sure Brian and Evelyn are being culturally enriched while I’m eating Haribo and surreptitiously pulling my swimming costume out of my backside.
When we arrive at the beach, it seems that a shitload of tourists also chose sand over souvenir hunting and it’s easy to see why.
The beach is an expanse of white sand, and the sea is turquoise, with a view of the mountains behind us.
It looks like it’s been filtered for Instagram.
I pass by showers as we walk in, an area for people with disabilities and a snack bar, which I of course zero in on like a sniper.
The locals also seem to be avid sunbathers with their perfectly tanned skin and annoyingly beautiful accents.
I’m envious that this experience is normal for them.
We all spread out and choose a spot, which isn’t difficult; there’s enough room for everyone, unlike some smaller UK beaches where it’s a fight to the death to get a square inch of sand.
Perhaps we just arrived early enough before the afternoon rush.
I rent an umbrella and chair for fifteen euros and buy some water from the nearby stalls, securing my spot for the next few hours.
It’s 10.30 a.m. and we need to be back on the bus by 2 p.m. I set my phone alarm but keep an eye on the couple in front of me, in case they start packing up while I’m pretending to be the Little Mermaid on some nearby rocks.
I can feel the sun nipping through my factor fifty already.
I apply more sun cream and let it soak in before I venture out.
Perhaps there are fish near the shoreline that nibble all the hard skin off your feet. I would keep them occupied for years.
There are several venders peddling everything from sunglasses to beach towels.
I politely refuse, even when my patience starts to run out with one particular guy who either has amnesia that he’s already approached me six times or thinks he can wear me down into buying a braided beach bracelet. He can. He does. It’s blue and pink.
After an hour of listening to my ‘Happy’ playlist, I decide to brave the water but I’m hesitant to leave my bag unattended.
On the cruise ship, anything valuable I own is either with me or in my cabin but out here it’s every Samsung for himself.
I spot some bus buddies and ask them for help while I run in for a dip.
The younger woman is already in the sea, leaving her elderly companion under their umbrella.
‘Hi! Sorry to bother you!’
‘Hola.’
Of course, she speaks Spanish.
‘Sorry, would you mind just keeping my phone and cruise card while I swim?’ I say, clumsily trying to gesture my request.
She shakes her head. ‘Lo siento. No hablo ingles.’
I start to feel resentful. Dora the Explorer wasn’t available to me in the eighties. I’m sure the childless, non-Spanish speakers of Gen X would agree with me. But this reply, I understand.
‘Um, OK.’ I hold out my phone and card before making another futile attempt at communication through offering and pointing.
‘El mar? No, gracias, yo no nado.’
As I continue to struggle, she takes out her phone and opens Google Translate.
It takes thirty seconds for her to happily agree to help me out.
I plod down the beach, mortified that an eighty-year-old woman is more phone savvy than I am.
Regardless, I’m also safe in the knowledge that if she steals them, I could totally take her in a fight.
The sea is shallow at first and I see people walking quite far before they become bobbing heads in the distance.
Sadly there are no feet fish, but I do wade through some seaweed close to the shoreline which is slimy and less welcome but soon dissipates the further I go.
I’m delighted that the water is warm, a luxury for people in Britain, who are forced to cold plunge, even when it’s sunny outside.
It would probably take a decade of hundred-degree temperatures to take the chill out of the North Sea.
Even the fire god, Logi, would eventually give up and accept defeat.
I glance back at Grandma, who’s still in the same spot and is now joined again by her companion.
Later I’ll come back and take some videos.
Maybe Grandma will film me frolicking in the sea or building momentous sandcastles complete with carefully constructed moats.
She’d probably edit it, create a showreel complete with graphics and emotive music, before emailing me the PDF since she’s obviously a covert tech savant.
But for now, I’m just going to kick back and enjoy this moment alone.