If I ever wondered how hot a motorcycle’s muffler could get after 15 minutes of non-stop driving, I got the painful answer as soon as I reached Long Beach. Out of utter excitement, I carelessly got off the vehicle with my right leg touching the searing muffler. It was excruciating, to say the least. I let out a shriek, the same shriek I make when I open my wallet at the end of each month. And for a moment there, I was in hell.
But only for a moment.
The pain was nothing compared to the pure, anesthetic bliss delivered in big doses by the sand sparkling under the equally scorching summer sun.
We landed on Part Barton the day before and found the resort I booked on the far end of the cove. On the way there, I passed a wooden bridge straddling a creek that seemed to fade even before it could touch the sea. Fronting the resort was a highly uneven terrain.
I watched my friend Brenna bury her soles in the supple ground as she waltzed her way to the end of the cove. She was not looking back, not even once. Her eyes were fixed to the glowing dunes that make up a mini-mountain range by the shore. Behind her, a trail of deep footprints. I shook my slippers off and followed her.