Beach in a box, merely a room with sand in, all amenities within arms reach for the lazy visitor with more money than creativity. Sea grass is contained in roped-off flowerbeds, sunbeds in neat lines; and the sand plough is hidden behind a refreshment shed, ready to restore the perfection should anything disturb the levelled surface.
Behind me looms the hotel, each room isolate, individually lit yellow or by flickering white television, booming video I surmise but cannot see.
The sea spans the world ahead of me: a black whole mass, wearing her coloured lights like charms; she is utterly unmoved by the artificial perfection on shore. She makes her own noise, unhushed and unashamed; a confident surround sound of infinity, whispering a sleepy message. The black sliver of horizon is squeezed between water of clouds above and water below, as far away as the eye can see. A ship waits offshore, relaxed and unhurried, adorned by the white lights of immobility.
Behind me, a sudden harsh shout, and running, clumsy feet, alcohol at work. Chatter reflects off concrete balconies, and I hear voices rise and fall. A few drops of water materialize and fall out of the air and
a lizard scampers with a patter of tiny feet.
I try to remember the sea as I return to my individual, air conditioned cubicle.