Calypso beach, Poros, Greece 1 August 2016
Watching the arrival of the tall, beautiful young blonde in the peach bikini complete with rhinestones and her short, fat, bald and bearded companion in the baggy blue shorts, my view is interrupted by the slowly moving elderly woman in a blue wrap who is aiming for the sun lounger directly in front of us. She stops and decides to put her stuff on it thus blocking my view of Miss Russia wriggling out of her cut off jeans.
Then the blonde and Svengali walk into the sea and as I watch them frolicking in the water it is clear that they are not father and daughter. Curiosity partly satisfied, I return to my novel. I have lost sight of the lady in the blue wrap.
A while later Vicky, dripping from her swim, suggests moving from our tree-shaded loungers up the beach to a couple on the water's edge, to catch the late sun. Turns out we are now next to the odd couple who are just coming out of the sea and are soon laughing and joking in a mixture of Russian and then some English. He is the dominant figure and she clearly adores him, despite his frog like appearance.
Suddenly we become aware of a commotion at the water's edge over to our left, at the end of the short beach. There is a person lying on the sand, and someone standing over her, bending down and then signalling that something is wrong.
Others rush over to see what is going on, and as they turn over the prone figure, I can see it is an elderly woman, and I see death on her face. I look away. I hope I am wrong. I hope the people pumping her chest and giving mouth to mouth resuscitation will succeed. But I know she is dead. I have seen that look before.
Earlier I had noticed that the sun lounger on which the lady in the blue wrap had a clear plastic beach bag lying neatly on top of a small pile of clothes. It struck me as unusual because most people just dump their stuff on the loungers. On recollecting the scene I realise there was no towel.
People are now crossing themselves. One girl being comforted by her boyfriend is crying as she walks away from the inert figure towards where we are sitting on the beach.
I cannot bear it. I get up and leave. As I am walking up the steps towards the road, I have to move aside for a bald, middle-aged man wearing a shirt, trousers and shoes more suited for work than the beach. He is carrying a tan leather bag that looks like a doctor's bag. He is not hurrying.
The Lady in the Blue Wrap
Watching the arrival of the tall, beautiful young blonde in the peach bikini complete with rhinestones and her short, fat, bald and bearded companion in the baggy blue shorts, my view is interrupted by the slowly moving elderly woman in a blue wrap who is aiming for the sun lounger directly in front of us. She stops and decides to put her stuff on it thus blocking my view of Miss Russia wriggling out of her cut off jeans.
Then the blonde and Svengali walk into the sea and as I watch them frolicking in the water it is clear that they are not father and daughter. Curiosity partly satisfied, I return to my novel. I have lost sight of the lady in the blue wrap.
A while later Vicky, dripping from her swim, suggests moving from our tree-shaded loungers up the beach to a couple on the water's edge, to catch the late sun. Turns out we are now next to the odd couple who are just coming out of the sea and are soon laughing and joking in a mixture of Russian and then some English. He is the dominant figure and she clearly adores him, despite his frog like appearance.
Suddenly we become aware of a commotion at the water's edge over to our left, at the end of the short beach. There is a person lying on the sand, and someone standing over her, bending down and then signalling that something is wrong.
Others rush over to see what is going on, and as they turn over the prone figure, I can see it is an elderly woman, and I see death on her face. I look away. I hope I am wrong. I hope the people pumping her chest and giving mouth to mouth resuscitation will succeed. But I know she is dead. I have seen that look before.
Earlier I had noticed that the sun lounger on which the lady in the blue wrap had a clear plastic beach bag lying neatly on top of a small pile of clothes. It struck me as unusual because most people just dump their stuff on the loungers. On recollecting the scene I realise there was no towel.
People are now crossing themselves. One girl being comforted by her boyfriend is crying as she walks away from the inert figure towards where we are sitting on the beach.
I cannot bear it. I get up and leave. As I am walking up the steps towards the road, I have to move aside for a bald, middle-aged man wearing a shirt, trousers and shoes more suited for work than the beach. He is carrying a tan leather bag that looks like a doctor's bag. He is not hurrying.
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