Young Love

This morning, I had the privilege of watching young love on the beach. (No, not that kind, although I have happened upon it, and I usually do a quick about-face and hiss for Elvis to leave the investigating to the mosquitos.) It was early—the only music wafting through the air was the low cymbals of the tide rolling in and the parrots flitting about in the trees, shrieking back and forth like elementary school children on the playground. Elvis and I stepped on the beach, deciding which way to go. Yesterday, we went to the left, which meant today was a turn to the right. There were aromas on the coconuts lying here and there we needed to visit. A few minutes into our walk, I noticed a young couple by the big tree lying at the edge of the waterline. I have dubbed this giant “Floating Man” as it has drifted down the shoreline for the last two months. If you squint just right and have an imagination like mine, it looks like a man with wild, curly hair fanned out in the water, legs spread casually as he enjoys his moment of peace in the ocean. (You should see what I can do with clouds.)

But I digress. Elvis and I continue our sandy stroll, getting closer to the couple at the tree. They are young and in love, and you can tell this by the pearly grins on their faces as they look into each other’s eyes, locked in an embrace. I watch her drop her hands from his waist and, with a giggle, scampers onto the pale yellow trunk and begins to walk down its spine like a balance beam. Never taking his eyes from her, the young man walks beside her in the black and white sand, his hand outstretched in case she falls. She stumbles on a knot and immediately grasps his fingers, but I can tell from her smile as the breeze blows her long, straight, black hair around her face that she doesn’t really need it. She has perfect balance—she only wanted a reason to touch his hand. His soft brown eyes follow her every movement. He’s a young man in love. He can’t help it. She is lovely, as graceful as a cat, walking confidently toward the tree’s massive roots, hanging above the bubbling surf.

Elvis begins to walk toward the tree. “Nope,” I say, and she looks at me unamused. That’s her spot to check her pee-mail, and this is her beach. “On the way back.” She chuffs at me in annoyance, but I don’t want to break the magical spell cast over this young couple. Soon enough, something or someone will prick the balloon and let reality in, but it won’t be us. Elvis takes off for the high sand. The smells up there aren’t nearly as delicious, and she makes no bones about how annoyed she is with me. We walk on, and, like a voyeur, I steal glances over my shoulder at the couple. To be young and in love without a care in the world other than the person who fills your every thought.

“Okay, home,” I say to the blonde bomb a little later. She’s taken care of business and checked all but one of her spots. The dog, who was trudging in the sand seemingly on her last legs only moments ago, now bounds down the beach like a greyhound. I shake my head at her, my actress is in high form today. I notice that the young couple has left the tree and are walking toward me, stopping to take a picture of themselves, trying to capture their morning. The young woman frowns when she looks at the photo. Something is wrong. “Que tome la foto?” I ask hesitantly in my very broken Spanish, praying I haven’t said something wrong, and gesture at her phone.

“Si!” they answer with smiles that would make a dentist faint away at their loveliness.

I look at the screen showing the two faces and press the shutter, hoping I’ve caught their fairy-tale moment. I hand her back the phone, and she grins, seeing the image, and I breathe a little sigh of relief. My picture-taking skills are not noteworthy. If I can take one without my finger in the photo, it’s a good day. But what is reflected on the screen has captured what she wanted—the magic they both feel. “Gracias,” they say, never taking their eyes off the phone, and begin walking down the beach arm in arm. I nod and send up a little prayer for them. Please don’t let anyone burst this fragile little soap bubble today. Let them have this moment.

Uninterested in my capturing of young love, Elvis is engrossed in the smells of Floating Man, which was previously denied her. A multitude of canines have left messages, and she’s getting her nose full. When I get close, she decides she’s had enough. She gives me a look and begins trotting up the beach. It’s time for her to be with her true love, the one she thinks about all day—the stainless steel bowl with kibble and a garnish of mozzarella cheese. Ah, love comes in all forms.