The surf camp lasts
five weeks. After
the last session, the
16 girls who consistently participated
received boards and
goody bags and a
fish dinner. The girls
who participated
posed with the
instructors.
At right, campers
and instructors walk
to (and from) camp.
Sometimes they wander in the front door,
and we give them crumbs off the table.
Our old neighbor is the color of cracked
clay. His Brahman cattle weed our yard,
and I think they are beautiful until they
start to eat the purple azaleas and red hibiscuses that go so nicely with our yellow
cinder-block home.
The camp lasts five weeks, and after the
last session, the 16 girls who consistently
participate receive boards and goody bags
and a fine fish dinner prepared by Sharp.
On one side of the sky, a storm moves in
with sudden flashes of lightning. Streaks of
red and pink collide with the storm, and
the battle is underlined by gray clouds the
shape of mountains.
Nicaragua is quiet, and sometimes I
forget people exist. A group of dogs fight
on the beach. They are so thin, and I can
see every rib in their sides. We have gone
to the beach with some of the girls to
watch the sunset and play a game of tag. I
lunge for a shirtless boy in blue shorts and
wrap my arms around his waist, tickling
his sides and spinning him across the setting sun. Our shadows dance in the pale
sands and stretch into the sea. Blackness
eats each star’s reflection one by one, and
we run into the surf. Our bodies glow. We
