Floridian: Amanda Luchsinger: Honorable mention

Floridian

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Amanda Luchsinger: Honorable mention

By AMANDA LUCHSINGER
Published June 26, 2005

[Times photo: Ted McLaren

Amanda Luchsinger at Honeymoon Island State Park.

We drove miles out from the African capital, seeking the solitude and beauty of our secret beach, where no footprints went before us, and we could be in love alone. The grass was head-high, the pathway barely traceable in the hot, white sand, which sank beneath our heavy feet, burdened as we were with beach essentials. Sweat dripped from us, and wind hissed through the grasses, stinging our bare ankles with airborne granules. At last, a diamond-lit horizon of restless blue and turquoise, suckling gently on the sugar sand. We sat gratefully, eyes screwed up against the arcing glare. Silence, save for the rustling grasses, and gently swooshing ocean.

Time drifted by on gentle breezes, languidly lifting hair still damp from swimming, fluttering unattended magazine pages. Suddenly, the silence seemed louder; the hitherto unnoticed humming of cicadas abruptly gone. A dull "thud, thud," broke through the grass, and we were surrounded: dark men wielding sharp sticks and machetes closed about us, saying nothing, knives swinging menacingly at our heads. Paralyzed with fear, we sat, heads down, barely breathing as they snatched our bags and discarded clothing, and left as rapidly as they came, dark shadows slinking into the tall grass. We sat, violated, clinging to each other, gasping for breath.

Fear let go enough for us to stumble through the grasses to our car, keys still in the pockets of damp swimming trunks. The disinterested village policeman took down our story with a surly pencil stub. Still trembling inside, I looked behind, as the car bumped down the winding road to town. The distancing horizon still sparkled under the hot African sun, but the edges of the sky seemed darkened. In the swaying grass, I felt the menace of the shadows; secrets of our secret beach, now lost to us forever.