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Prologue
The Lady on the Beach
I think of her from time to time, the lady on the beach.
She was elegant, regal, and physically compromised. Surrounded
by her large, extended family and a Great Dane the color of
stone, she sat under her toldo at the beach at Las
Playetas.
The family came and went from their house next to the beach.
They gathered at the striped toldo, a canvas awning
supported by four poles. It is customary for each family to
erect a toldo as protection from the intense, midday
sun. Under the toldo sat a collection of her grown
children and their spouses, assorted grandchildren, her husband
and the occasional uniformed servant. From the toldo
they sallied back and forth to the water.
Our house is perched high on the hillside overlooking the
sea. From the terrace we have a panoramic view of the blue
Mediterranean. It is punctuated on the left by the Moorish
Tower, on the right by the “castle”, a large white
stucco house. On a clear day you can see the Islas Columbretes
in the far distance. Halfway to Mallorca.
Our routine those summer days was to descend from our hilltop
in the late morning. We climbed down the 46 rustic steps,
cut into our hill, to the main road. Depending upon our whim,
we would either walk the hundreds of steps down the steep
hill to the beach far below or drive the rented Seat.
Mostly we drove.
Down the curving, twisting road, we passed through the community
of white stucco houses with red tile roofs set on terraced
hillsides. The gardens in the spare Spanish landscape brought
forth trees, flowers and assorted shrubs: oleanders, broom,
olive trees, poplars, and blooming geraniums. Over the garden
walls, pines and cypresses were visible along with the occasional
carob tree. Las Playetas was set in what had once
been a carob grove. We stopped at the guardhouse and picked
up the mail, then meandered down the street to the sand and
the sea, to our toldo.
The white sandy beach of Playetas is protected at
each end by long, stone jetties. The sea is warm. The waves
are small. There is a long, shallow walk to deep water. It
is a placid, swimmable sea with red buoys keeping the boats
at a distance.
The custom at the Spanish beach is to gather in the late
morning to sun and swim. Around two o’clock the bathers,
most of whom are Spaniards, leave the beach to go home for
comida, the mid-day meal. The beach has few visitors
the rest of the afternoon.
Our toldo was near the toldo of the Spanish
family with the lady and her dog. We watched each other’s
comings and goings. The lady wore a black bathing suit and
sat in a canvas chair presiding over her large, extended family.
Tanned, with honey-colored hair, she was in her mid to late
fifties. Her children were grown.
Some time around noon, with the help of an assistant, she
stood up, tall and lean. Holding the arm of her youngest son
– still a bachelor – she slowly, laboriously,
made her way to the water. She walked into the sea to a swimmable
depth of three feet. She had a strong upper body. Letting
go of her son, she swam free into the Mediterranean. The Great
Dane was her companion. After a long swim out to the buoys
she returned to the shallow water. Lying there, she signaled
and waited for someone to come fetch her.
They pulled her up. Her legs had been claimed by polio. Holding
the arm of another and drawing strength, her legs served her
just enough to traverse the hot sand back to her chair under
the toldo.
Everyone on the beach knew her. They watched her and the
family tableau. My children played with her grandchildren,
Toni and Xavi. I never met her. What I did not know or suspect
when I first saw her was that someday I would share her fate.
Years later, remembering those days at Playetas,
my daughter said, “She was cool, that lady on the beach.”
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