I’m an academic—in other words, a timid soul.
If you saw me you’d know my type—skinny, bearded face, glasses and Harris Tweed jackets with leather elbow patches.
I’m a Professor of Literature teaching courses on love and romance. For fun, I edit a literary review. See what I mean? Caspar Milquetoast on campus.
I’m a lot bigger on the inside than on the outside, but I’m not sure women see me that way—in fact, I’m not sure they see me at all.
I once penned a book of poetry published by Anansi Press.
I thought the love poems torrid, but the black and white photo of the fragile poet probably belied the idea in the minds of female readers.
I teach beautiful women. I’ve been among the mermaids and came up covered with seaweed.
They have trailed their beauty across my path—sat on ocean rocks listening—but haven’t lingered long.
That’s why I chose a sabbatical by the sea.
I’ve listened to them sing—now I want them to sing to me.
“So, Prof, what brings you to Anna Maria Island?”
The twenty-year old sales clerk looks like any of my students and just as cocky. He’s got wavy blonde hair, blue eyes and a surfer body. Probably a beach bum, I muse.
“I came here to get away—look at the waves—maybe write.”
“You came to the right place for that—but if you’re looking for chicks, I’d have picked Fort Lauderdale.”
“Yeah, well—this suits me.”
He smirks and hands me my new beach wardrobe. “I’m sure it does.”
I’ve got knee-length khaki shorts, a couple of cool tees, and a pair of turquoise plaid swim trunks that are fashionably mid-thigh length.
I’m all set except for my bone-white pallor.
“Have you got any self-tan bronzing mousse?”
He scans my pale skin. “Here—St. Tropez—it’s on the house.” He tosses the bottle into my bag.
“Don’t stay out in the sun too long, even after applying this stuff—you’ll look like a mixed grill.”
“Thanks, Man,” I murmur, trying to appear cool.
“No prob,” he winks.
I like the Florida Gulf side and particularly Holmes Beach—came here with my folks in high school and fell in love with it.
What I told the sales clerk is partly true—I want to look at the waves and maybe write—but the other part, I didn’t tell. I want to look at women and have them look back at me.
That’s not too much to ask, is it? I don’t think so.
The cottage I’ve rented is on a narrow lane, just steps from the beach. It’s got a garage filled with every possible beach toy imaginable.
I explore the garage and select some items. I spot a wheelbarrow. Great! Into it, I throw a beach umbrella along with a folding chair, a beach towel, a cooler and my binoculars.
I wheel the whole damn lot down to the water and sit there for an hour.
The ocean and sky are wild and beautiful, but I’m restless. No mermaids are calling.
I go back to the house and come back with a kite I bought at the surf store. I fly it until it reaches the end of its tether. I’m bored and tie it to the aluminum frame of my chair.
I walk down the beach looking for shells.
I come back in time to see my red kite break free and line trailing, head off across the Gulf on its way to Mexico.
I follow it with my binoculars until it’s a speck on the horizon and lost beyond the waves. Maybe a mermaid will find it on the opposite coast. I hope so.
I’ve sent my cosmic SOS. Now, all I have to do is wait.
