I am not what you’d call a beach person. When I was younger, I would go to Jones Beach (Field 6) with my dad, but when we moved to NJ, I just stopped going. Maybe it was because the water was usually gross; maybe it was because I hated the sand in my bathing suit; or maybe it was because I never tanned, just burned (my Eastern Eurpoean genes are working hard this week).
My wife, on the other hand, is a beach bum. And it took 6 years for her to get me to the beach – only it was in Greece. Of course, I fell in love. I loved the sound of the waves crashing, the peaceful moments just laying under a straw umbrella. This year, we decided to replicate that experience in our own hemisphere – we took a trip to St. Maarten (using the Dutch spelling, as we’re staying on the Dutch side).
Unfortunately, the lessons I learned last year – applying sunblock in equal amounts over the totality of my cherubic body – didn’t quite sink in.
So now I sit in agonizing pain (relative, of course – sunburn is not the end of the world) in random spots across my body. If you saw me now (and no, pictures don’t even do it justice), you could be excused for mistaking me for someone who got pinkbellied. On my back. On my right ankle. And of course, on my belly.
While my thoughts right now are Josh-centric (this sun burn is, in my hypochondriac’s mind, acute sun poisoning), I will make some time in the next few days to talk about the island (and yes, there are several areas that do resemble “Lost”). For now, here’s a look at some pictures of the beach, of the scenery – but none of “red Josh.” Hopefully, the pink will subside in the next few days and I can get back on the beach to burn all over again.