The Beachcomber

From Jan. 19-10
Dear Fellow Travelers,

You know that I often drive the 8 or 9 miles out to Amwaj Island in order to pursue fitness. But whereas I previously power-walked either through canal-sided streets or alongside the seashore in residential sections, the equation has now changed. In an attempt to become even more fit I have now changed my regimen to one of a combination of walking and jogging (your gasp is a mixture of admiration and shock).

But you know that I had one knee scoped back in ’92 (okay, who’s the wiseacre that just said, “you sure it wasn’t in ’02…1902!?) and must therefore search for a soft surface on which to jog. Sand. Sand was the answer. There’s not so much sand, surprisingly, in Bahrain, but I know a longish cove here that has some.

Which reminds me of couple months back when I went to look at a potential membership with a place called the Country Club. The Receptionist spoke with an Eastern European accent, which I quickly ascertained to be either Bulgarian or Macedonian. Playing it somewhat safe, I said, “I detect that you are Bulgarian.” She confessed that she was and we started talking about her country, since I have taken teams there on three separate occasions for training camps. Twice we stayed in Varna, on the Black Sea, specifically at the resort area known as “Golden Sands.” It is a most excellent place and the sands are aptly named, though the sea, disappointingly, isn’t black. Anyway, she sighed with nostalgia over Golden Sands (though she’s from Sofia) and said that when she found this job online she had dreams of palm trees and deep sands everywhere. Alas, there’s not an abundance of either.

But to console her, as I left, I said, “At least you’re not from Macedonia.” She murmured agreement. I asked, “Does anyone care who gets Macedonia?” She shook her head no. Told ya.

But back at Amwaj Island, I yesterday became more than just a walker-jogger; I also became a beachcomber. In the course of pursuing my route, I came across many fascinating things that had washed up. There’s an empty plastic bottle; what a tale it could tell should it be able to talk. Over there is half of a red Nerf ball—who would ever have dreamed they’re not hollow in the middle? A piece of torn canvas; wow, look at that intricate design. A tomato, sort of shriveled, but with curvature worth studying. Look! A plastic shopping bag! I gauged its dimensions to be eight inches by 16 inches, and I thought to myself that it could hold a lot more individual M&Ms than it could large containers of Tide detergent.

Next, I saw an old work glove. I counted the fingers. “Wow,” I said to myself. “Five.” Then I saw something extremely interesting: an upside down shoe, featuring rubber tread on the sole. This reminded me of crime shows where I’d seen forensic people trace, with computer help, shoe or tire treads to specific culprits. Hoping for the same result, I studied the shoe tread diligently. And my mind, though not technically a computer, raced through an infinite list of suspects until after 45 seconds I had narrowed the list of possibles to three, not the least of whom was Baboo…who works at the laundry just around the corner from my apartment.

Continuing along, I encountered a Pepsi can (pronounced Bepsi here, as Ps are pronounced as Bs in Arabic…leaving me to answer to “Bat”) whose colors remained extraordinarily bright. I knelt and studied/admired them a long time. “Man. Blue and red,” I whispered. Then, look! Another tomato, but this one plumper and redder! Having not eaten breakfast, I conducted an experiement and took a bite. Ugh. All squishy, and salty, and rancid. But wanting to give the super vegetable one more try before racing to judgement, I bit in again. What’s that thing?! Yuck! Do you suppose sea slugs lay their eggs in sea-tossed tomatoes the way flies plant maggots here and there?

I continued along and broke into a jog (it’s sort of hard to breathe while you’re retching) but very soon a bad thing happened. There are many rocks strewn along the beach and I usually avoid them, but suddenly…I lay sprawled in the sand. One of the rocks had got my sneakered right toe. Since I was sweaty, sand stuck to my skin. But at least I wasn’t injured. And no one had seen the mishap, lest I might be made the object of ridicule.

But just to be certain of this second assumption I quickly looked to the adjacent construction site, and, from a good number of workmen, focused in on the backs of the two nearest me. As it happened, this duo of Indian laborers were shaking with laughter—obviously having just seen something acutely funny in the direction of the street. “They’re like children,” I said to the rock that had tripped me. “The poor simpletons.” Just for the record, I recognized one of them as Apu, and the other as a fellow named Baboo.

I was soon back at my starting place and, en route, had spotted even more treasure, including a piece of rope and an orange. I was just starting to walk away and back to my car when I noticed something odd sticking out of the sand. Out of mild curiosity I started digging around and before long had unearthed an old pterodactyl skeleton. It wasn’t very big, probably about 14-feet long, and not terribly interesting, but still I decided to take it home and so started dragging it along. I’m not an expert in archeological dating, but I put the thing at about 4009 years old. Which means an evolutionist would place it at 27 million years of age.

But then as I got next to my car a funny thing happened. A Range Rover with Saudi plates pulled alongside and stopped on the little side street. The bearded driver got out, eyeing my new acquisition. I spotted covetousness in his beady eyes. I knew he wanted the thing. Now you may know that Arabs have a reputation as being the world’s toughest hagglers…and they won’t pay face value for anything. Well, I told myself then and there that this particular Arab had just met way more than his match. He asked me how much I wanted for the old bones and I told him. The game was on.

Thirty minutes later, defeat etched on his craggy face, the guy was strapping it to the top of his vehicle. Not wanting to gloat, I held back the smile of derision that begged to leap from my face. I was granite. He pulled away, the beak of the beast pointed straight down the center of the road. But, friends, he wasn’t in the same condition as when I’d met him. No. This particular gentleman was the equivalent of $14 lighter in the wallet.

So much for Great Negotiators. And here’s to intrepid beachcombers the world over.
Coach Bat