the waves while glaring moodily out to sea. Shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets, he hunches his shoulders to stare at his shoes for a long while. He's tall. If he was a threat I probably couldn't out-muscle or outrun him. When he lifts his head I get a clear view of his face.
It's that guy from yesterday!
His mouth is twisted in grief, his eyes screwed up and his chin flexing like he's chewing his cheek or something. Dropping to his haunches he picks up a shell, twirling it around in his fingers while balancing in a crouch. Lost in faraway thought, I can tell he's not even looking at the shell.
He looks so miserable and sad.
Slumping back into a sitting position he wipes at his eyes, kneading the heels of his hands into them, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning his head into his palms as if in complete despair.
Now I feel just awful for intruding on his private time. He probably came down here to think, to get out and be alone with his problems.
He's just sitting there like brittle driftwood washed up and stranded. His sorrow is so obvious my heart kinks and aches, instantly uncomfortable in my chest.
I wish I could go and sit with him and give his hand a squeeze. He's too young to have such sadness in his heart.
Maybe his girl broke up with him?
I dunno. What I do know is I'm not going to embarrass him by letting him know I witnessed this. Turning, I quickly and quietly retrace my steps.
Poor guy.
Pausing when I reach the tall bushes at the entrance to Noordhoek beach, I look back down the white expanse to his solitary form.
In disbelief I watch him strip his clothes off and go running into the ocean at full throttle, diving into the waves and disappearing.
Heck! Oh blast, don't tell me he's trying to commit suicide or something?
I knew I should have brought my phone.
Panicked, I go sprinting back.
I can't swim in there! My swimming sucks badly in strong currents. I'm a shallow water swimmer and am in no way equipped to rescue anyone.
He's going to freeze to death out there.
Scanning the swells I wait for a silhouetted head to pop up in the shiny shadows. The sea still looks black and foreboding.
He's either stark raving mad or desperate.
When I can't see him, worry springs tears into my eyes. My gut is knotting and my hands are beginning to shake from cold and stress.
Pacing back and forth, searching, I almost cough on a choking breath when I see arms swimming in the round motion of an athlete slicing through the water.
He is seriously far out and I only spied him because he broke the gloss of a swell.
Crikey Taz. He's probably a swimmer and does this every morning. You're freaking out for nothing.
Now he's going to think I'm a creepy perv. If he sees me here he's going to assume I get my jollies catching naked swimmers having a private swim in their birthday suit.
Which I do not want to see anyhow!
He's not drowning, he's in control. He's probably too far away to see me if I walk back along the shrub line where the darkness of my clothes won't stick out the way it does while I'm standing here highlighted by sun bleached beach.
Scarpering, I run up to the greenery of the fynbos, looking back, still a little worried.
He's okay. Get out of here before he sees you.
My heart feels bruised and my eyes sting from the brisk cold of predawn breath, but I turn away so I'm not caught being a stalking voyeur. He's going to think I'm disturbed if he sees me out here this early pawing around his discarded clothes.
He might even think I have itchy fingers and am a closet kleptomaniac.
Ugh!
The more I think about it the worse it sounds.
Back in the entrance between the sparse big shrubs, I look back, hoping he's going to be okay out there. He could get hypothermia and cramp up, unable to swim back.
Anxiety clenches my innards and my conscience won't let me go. Looking around, I decide to climb up onto the huge boulders to the right of the entrance. They go quite a way, leading out into the
It's that guy from yesterday!
His mouth is twisted in grief, his eyes screwed up and his chin flexing like he's chewing his cheek or something. Dropping to his haunches he picks up a shell, twirling it around in his fingers while balancing in a crouch. Lost in faraway thought, I can tell he's not even looking at the shell.
He looks so miserable and sad.
Slumping back into a sitting position he wipes at his eyes, kneading the heels of his hands into them, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning his head into his palms as if in complete despair.
Now I feel just awful for intruding on his private time. He probably came down here to think, to get out and be alone with his problems.
He's just sitting there like brittle driftwood washed up and stranded. His sorrow is so obvious my heart kinks and aches, instantly uncomfortable in my chest.
I wish I could go and sit with him and give his hand a squeeze. He's too young to have such sadness in his heart.
Maybe his girl broke up with him?
I dunno. What I do know is I'm not going to embarrass him by letting him know I witnessed this. Turning, I quickly and quietly retrace my steps.
Poor guy.
Pausing when I reach the tall bushes at the entrance to Noordhoek beach, I look back down the white expanse to his solitary form.
In disbelief I watch him strip his clothes off and go running into the ocean at full throttle, diving into the waves and disappearing.
Heck! Oh blast, don't tell me he's trying to commit suicide or something?
I knew I should have brought my phone.
Panicked, I go sprinting back.
I can't swim in there! My swimming sucks badly in strong currents. I'm a shallow water swimmer and am in no way equipped to rescue anyone.
He's going to freeze to death out there.
Scanning the swells I wait for a silhouetted head to pop up in the shiny shadows. The sea still looks black and foreboding.
He's either stark raving mad or desperate.
When I can't see him, worry springs tears into my eyes. My gut is knotting and my hands are beginning to shake from cold and stress.
Pacing back and forth, searching, I almost cough on a choking breath when I see arms swimming in the round motion of an athlete slicing through the water.
He is seriously far out and I only spied him because he broke the gloss of a swell.
Crikey Taz. He's probably a swimmer and does this every morning. You're freaking out for nothing.
Now he's going to think I'm a creepy perv. If he sees me here he's going to assume I get my jollies catching naked swimmers having a private swim in their birthday suit.
Which I do not want to see anyhow!
He's not drowning, he's in control. He's probably too far away to see me if I walk back along the shrub line where the darkness of my clothes won't stick out the way it does while I'm standing here highlighted by sun bleached beach.
Scarpering, I run up to the greenery of the fynbos, looking back, still a little worried.
He's okay. Get out of here before he sees you.
My heart feels bruised and my eyes sting from the brisk cold of predawn breath, but I turn away so I'm not caught being a stalking voyeur. He's going to think I'm disturbed if he sees me out here this early pawing around his discarded clothes.
He might even think I have itchy fingers and am a closet kleptomaniac.
Ugh!
The more I think about it the worse it sounds.
Back in the entrance between the sparse big shrubs, I look back, hoping he's going to be okay out there. He could get hypothermia and cramp up, unable to swim back.
Anxiety clenches my innards and my conscience won't let me go. Looking around, I decide to climb up onto the huge boulders to the right of the entrance. They go quite a way, leading out into the
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