Old Beach Bum
I also live near the sea. I reside in Da Nang, Vietnam, where in the summers I swim daily between beckoning rows of washed-out buoy lines stretching as far the eye can see along the city's extensive white sand beach. I love ocean swimming and always have. At this point in my life taking early morning swims during the peak swim season from June to September are the best part of my day and would be very hard to live without.
Danang's long and wide world-class beach lies between the Tien Sa Peninsula and Cape Da Nang on the South China Sea. The waters in the swimming areas are still relatively clean and clear, with very little trash and other debris floating in the sea or scattered upon the shore and an average annual water temperature of 80 degrees Fahrenheit.
The beach's foreshore slopes quickly to the nearshore so at high morning tide bathers and swimmers can reach waist-deep water within a few paces. The offshore sandbar is only a few more kicks or bounces beyond. This creates a classic fishbowl effect, with calm seas and moderate to high visibility on most mornings during the peak summer season.
Ocean swimming in these ideal conditions is about as spiritually intoxicating and invigorating as it gets. I prefer alternating from the crawl to the breaststroke, moving back and forth between the buoy lines in shallow water no deeper than 10 or 15 feet.
Any farther out to sea and an irrational fear of becoming the victim of a shark attack sends me into panic overdrive, when the sheer terror of turning suddenly into shark bait turns my meditative kicks and strokes into frenetic and turbulent spasms of splashing and thrashing towards the safety of the shore.
During my countless morning swims, I've observed any number of small tropical fish darting to and from beneath the concrete hulls of the bigger flag buoys. Schools of larger nearshore fish can also be seen darting and jumping below and above the shimmering ocean surface, while here and there bite-sized sand crabs with fake black eyes on their backs dig for cover beneath the sandy ocean floor.
Every so often, I find waterlogged money, mostly bills of small denominations, drifting along the seabed. Once spotted, I dive down to scoop up the notes and like a dutiful husband bring them straight home to my wife.
As an older beach bum with congestive heart failure, I now know that my time on this planet will one day end in Da Nang. So many turnpikes have led up to this moment in my life, where the end of the road looms so much closer than the beginning. At this stage, the promise of life seems more like the weeds in my late mother's pea-graveled front lawn than the flowers in her backyard garden.
Like my twin brother, the old gringo, who was down in Baja but now lives only a few hundred miles across the border in Cambodia, I too love the blissful happiness the ocean brings out in people, especially the pure joy seen in children, whose jubilant squeals and cachinnations reverberate along the seashore like the paradisial siren songs of a maritime glee club.
Many of the children, their wide, bright smiles beaming from wet, dripping faces, stare approvingly at this old foreigner (người nước ngoài) with admiration in their eyes. Other stares, mostly from adults, reflect a more benign indifference. But rarely do I ever get stink eye from the locals.
