I have always said no one told me I had a choice when it came to growing up. If I ever questioned it, one day last week was one of those days. We visited Playa Dominical, basically a surfer beach. Or, as one of my fellow travelers said, "Surfer camp".
When we drove in it was like entering a peaceful shady commune. In the distance we could see the beach, in front of us, under the shade of the palms were lines of tables decorated with colorful necklaces, bracelets, masks, dresses, t-shirts, and lines of hanging sarongs in bright colors blowing in the wind.
Across the shady lane that ran parallel to the sea beside the vendors was a line of comfortably shabby rooming houses, hotels, hovels, tents, bars, stores, and restaurants. Barefooted well tanned young folks moved about. Some coming back from the beach with their boards, others on their way to the beach. Small groups would be stopped in animated conversation.
And as they made their way to the beach to catch the next wave without a care in the world, I turned to join my friends knowing the next morning I would be leaving at 6 am for a drive to the airport where I would fly back to reality. Personally, I prefer their reality. Why did I ever want to grow up anyway?
Well, I guess it all works out in the end. There were no "chunky" young girls among the surfers. They more resembled those destined for the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated - way out of my league. I never stood a chance joining that crew.