CAPE SAN BLAS—It’s a chilly morning. The beach is unpopulated at this early hour. It’s just a big sandy patch with lots of seagulls and stray crabs that run sideways. And, of course, me.
I’m walking because this is what I do when I can’t find something to write about. I walk. It works like a charm. Usually, after enough walking, reflection, and literary contemplation, I end up pulling a hamstring. Then I write about it.
But not today. Because about five minutes into my walk I notice Them. They are walking directly behind me, holding hands, leaning on each other. If I didn’t know any better I’d swear they were a four-legged love monster.
I turn back to look at the young sweethearts. They are right on my tail. There’s a huge beach out here, yet they’re practically following me.
Don’t get me wrong, love is wonderful stuff. I’m a big fan. But is there anything more irritating than a young person punchdrunk with love? I submit no.
It’s a wonder that my friends didn’t tie me up and lock me in a closet after
I first met my wife.
I can’t get these young lovers off my bumper. When I stop, they stop. When I walk, they walk. And even their conversation, which I can hear clearly, is getting on my nerves.
“I love shells.”
“Yeah, they’re great.”
“Where do seashells come from?”
“I think from little ocean trees.”
“So, they’re, like, plants or something?”
“Yeah, like underwater shell trees.”
Sound of kissing.
“I love underwater shell trees, Justin.”
You have to worry about America.
I decide to start walking the other direction and leave Bogey and Bacall to their philosophy discussion. To be fair, they seem like very good kids, but I am trying to cure writer’s block this morning. I need privacy.
So I turn. I walk past them. In a few minutes, I am by…