But it was the French family that was memorable.
With some difficulty (unsure footing/pregnant Josie), we had navigated the river to an in-between sanctum for picnicking and solo dipping. Upriver a ways was the far point (river mysteriously burrowing below ground beyond), the deepest pool with established jumping spots and naturally terraced rock sprouting lunching tourist groups like uninspired mushrooms. Heading downriver the flow petered to a shallow lack of possibility.
We
thought we would be alone.
Big
sister was the head of the septuplepede worming athletically up the banks. Aptly.
Even from a distance, her beauty was obvious: tall, tanned, fit,
elegantly nimble, brunette – mesmerizingly and shockingly clad in teeny yellow
bikini, flash running shoes, and aviator shades. Only. In
conservative Morocco? Hackles. Wariness.
Paternal-like concern.
The
other six were a blurry fringe, hushed tones out-watted-and-witted by the blinding
and brilliant canary hue foreground. Peripheral
consciousness picked up a wealth of trailing exposed skin and familial ties,
but little else.
They
kept coming.
Conscious
of her age, and her family behind, I tried to avert my stare, but it was a
traffic accident, impossible not to gawk.
They were coming right up on us.
More hackles. Would they respect
spacing? We were peacefully solitaire,
and fiercely protective of that bubble, a cache of facial expressions and body
posture set to register irritation, mystification and resentment on the
ready. I held off on cocking the
trigger. Why not have a closer look?
They
broke rank and stride ever so slightly, informally huddling on the move. Hyper-aware, my feelers exact, I confidently
(and correctly) surmised they were discussing destination, while also being spurred
to simultaneous realization that we were planted right in front of what might be considered a
moderately high launching point into the river for the cautious – or to the
family of mixed abilities and mettle.
We must
have appeared very much the content couple in love, spread out on our India
blanket over elaborate lunchables with romantic drippings, obviously reveling
in our earned and isolated situation.
They
barged. And this is what I loved about
them. They set up shop in front of us,
within a meter, essentially blotting out the river and our entire agenda -
endlessly jumping and screaming and splashing and cheering and cajoling and
laughing and photographing. Their
boldness titillated me. We barely
warranted a glance, and certainly not consideration. Maybe there was a highly evolved feeling-out
process conducted out of my stratosphere.
Maybe there was a head nod. But I
don’t think so.
Collectively,
they gave no fucks.
Big
sister had a friend – a family friend. Same
outfit, different colored bikini. If big
sister was a 10 (and she certainly was), the friend was a 9. These two are friends and high school
teammates on some sort of running squad – either track & field or cross
country, maybe both: they were definitely mid-distance to distance runners. I know.
I could tell from their bodies, their rapport, their behavior, their
particular athleticism – hell, their entire essence. I know.
(Later, on the hike out, I watched them act out their runner mentality
by choosing to run, with a runner’s
efficiency, the steep climb to the parking lot.
Further bolstering my assuredness: they put on running shorts over their
bikini bottoms when they reached the car.
Considering their brazenness, I’m sure this was only to avoid burning
their upper hamstrings on hot upholstery.
Yes, I was watching closely, but our proximity was merely
coincidence. I swear.)
These
two were so confident. There was virtually
no teenage insecurity present. It wasn’t
that they carried themselves like far more mature women, they carried themselves
like some other species. Aliens. It was as if they existed outside the realm
of normal human uncertainty. I don’t
think they considered for one single second how inappropriately dressed they
were for this sporting endeavor, not to mention (till now) for this country, where
women swim in full burka. But that was their magic. They didn’t strut and they weren’t arrogant. They weren’t stupid, vapid, ignorant, or
uneducated. I didn’t find them
culturally insensitive or insulting.
They existed on their own plane. A
higher order. A foreign thought process
at work.
I feel I
should further address their attractiveness. Honor the reality. Tip my hat.
Fall to my knees. I would like to
narrow my focus to the purely aesthetic, but I’m not going to. Let your imagination run wild. Astounding.
Fully mature bodies, before the onset of any mature imperfections. Crushingly pretty but not prissy. The kind of
beauty that is as salty as it is sweet, just as capable of arousing anxiety, paranoia
and regret as pleasure. They’re pain
inflictors. Now…
quietly,
in the back of my mind this morning, as I work my way through this experience,
I’ve been debating on the necessity of some type of disclaimer regarding this
sketchy subject material. I vowed to not
do it, but I’m chickening out: I would put the age of these girls around
16. I can imagine them in Driver’s
Education class. Despite my goings-on
about the exquisiteness of these two, I want you to understand my platonic observations and cravings. The mental self-gratification I allowed
myself in Paradise Valley was a clinical and premeditated exercise. I got caught up in the idea of how I would
have felt about these two when I was 16.
I tried to see them that way. Yearning
was what I experienced. I just wanted to
be around them (not now, 16 year-old Adam).
I wanted to “hang out.” I hankered for interaction. I wanted face time. I wanted ATTENTION. It
reminded me of standing outside the house of Pam Hamilton in the middle of the
night, and getting off just on knowing she was behind that window sleeping. I
guess that was close enough. It wasn’t
sexual then (I was a late bloomer). It
wasn’t sexual this time. AND, speaking
of self-gratification, I have married a woman so beautiful, so fucking hot,
that I find myself no longer capable of even keeping a stable of fantasy women or
situations. The barn door is permanently propped open. The ol’ right hand has been made
redundant. Anyways…
the
girls were really joyful in a non-cheesy way.
But they were being cheesy:
tandem jumps, egging each other on, too much I Phone documentation, incessant
giggling. And this phenomenon, and all
the other contradictions, is what I think I’ve been trying to mine the last few
hours. They were somehow so delightful,
so good-natured, so beautiful, that they were afforded some kind of pass. All day, in every arena, they transcended all their flaws.
I spent the afternoon completely consumed by their appetite for joy and for life. I wanted to inhale them.
I meant
to tell you about the rest of this amazing family:
-the much
younger and fearless brother with the deep and smoky resonating voice that
echoed through the canyon all afternoon, despite being “shushed” four thousand
times
-the attractive
mom, who kept peeking and exposing her breasts to check tan lines
-the smiley dad,
snapping pictures with endless patience, seemingly blind to the parading half-naked
troupe he was traveling with
-unremarkable
little sister, gracefully unfazed by her unremarkableness
(-an
aunt/sister I really didn’t examine),
but I am
feeling the need now to mine some visceral activity.
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