Image

Image

The imagemakers would have us believe
that beaches are the playgrounds
of the white smiling
the tautly beautiful youthful
the smooth skinned bronzed golden haired
the superbly muscled shouldered and pectoralled
the peachy buttocked and g-stringed
the flat bellied and pertly breasted
who loll and roll and exercise and warmup and pant and glow.

Well
they weren't there early this morning
were they
when the underworld of beachgoers
strolled limped plodded scratched and stretched onto the beach.

The old boys in their trunks pulled up like they have been for the last
twenty years
greying chest and back hair
clinging in shaggy patches
to the saggy remnants of a powerful musculature.
In for a serious quick dip, like they do every morning.

Or their old girls
at their side every morning
togs with a skirt for decency
to cover any likelihood of escaping pubic hair
not afraid of their bit of cellulite
or varicose veins.
On for a chat and a splash.

Or the fat folks
with their bits of this or that
pushed in tightly
or hanging out over the top of.
Braving eye gaze for the safety of the deeper water.

Or the mum with new bub
sitting back on her beach chair
one pale swollen breast
exposed for her child.
Longing for the chance of a swim unshackled.

Or the packhorse mums and dads
baggy eyed and blotchy
trailing scrappy flappy kids
to the water's edge.
Looking for a bit of peace and quiet.

Or the poor tall gaunt looking pale bald boy
with a scar around his head
who walked with a limp
and turned his face to the water
so people wouldn't notice he'd lost an eye.