When you live in a city close by the sea, you also want to swim in that sea.
People descend from fish and fish have to swim, always, even in the kitchen the chef exclaims, “fish must swim“. Even though he actually means, swim in dry white wine, not swim in seawater, but anyway.
This is primeval, very primeval. Even beyond “Roots”.
I live four or fivehundred meters from the sea and obviously I want to swim, that is an urge that won’t go away. The sea calls, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 24/7 as it were.
Companies, banks, insurance companies, yes, even civil servants say sometimes 24/7.
But if they réally mean it?
The earth, the moon, the sun and the universe work 24/7. And so does the sea.
Banks and the government organizations don’t do that.
The calling of the sea is irresistible, especially when the weather is nice, and over here it’s nice every day.
So swimming it is.
Unfortunately, modern life poses a practical problem immediately when one wants to give in to this primeval call:
Where do I leave the keys of my apartment when I enter the water?
I can hardly leave them lying on the beach.
Bury them under the sand and plant a little stick so I can find them again when I return? Or hold the bunch of keys in my mouth when I swim? What if I want to breathe every now and then?
Hide them in my slim and sporty swimming trunks? In that case I can only conquer the wild waves of the Atlantic as an elegant mermaid swimming the butterfly stroke,
actually, in principle I am a rather sportive guy. But in this case, let’s not overreact.
I will need different swimming trunks, the kind with a pocket, on the inside.
I can put my keys in there during my sporty primeval escapades in the atlantic.
I vaguely remember that I saw a swimming-trunk-shop somewhere, but where was it again? Somewhere along the boulevard? Yes, could be, but no. In the center of town? Nope again, ahhhh yes, the shop is located on the Rambla! The Rambla is a kind of ring in Arrecife where the bus station and all the offices are located, a few kilometer away from the beach, when I enter the shop with my penguin walk, a lady comes towards me with a serious face to ask me what I am doing here. I need a “traje de baño” or a”bañador” (swimming trunk) I explain to her and her face changes from serious to happy. “yes yes yes, we have those” she says.
“¡Peroooh… con un bolsillo interior por mi llaves!”,
“Buttt…. with an inside pocket for my keys!” I continue. She nods understandingly but her face changes from happy to serious. She digs quietly through all the shelves,
an abundance of swimming trunks, but not a single one with an inside pocket.
To break the awkward silence she asks me what my size is, my sheepish look makes it clear that this is a meaningless question. You shouldn’t ask these type of questions to a man.
She has almost given up when she has a brainwave, and calls out happily “espéra (wait)” runs to the back and returns with a new pile of swimming trunks, “Calvin Klein” she whispers in a conspiracy tone and shows me the inside of the trunks (with pocket!),
and puts the pile in my hands. After I’ve tried them I return with my choice to the cash registry where a second lady has joined us.
The first lady explains the complete story to the second, the inside pocket, the keys, the lot.
“But if he carries money on him, will it get wet?” wonders the second lady.
The first shakes her head, “only keys“. “And you can’t close the pocket, suppose he will swim wildly, like a sports person. Every year in May there is this triathlon ‘Ironman Lanzarote‘ for all these foreigners? And he is a foreigner?”.
The first lady smiles pityingly and shakes her head again, she has seen me when I entered the shop with my wobbly walk, this man is no “Ironman Lanzarote“.
Finally I can pay the bill, get my swimming trunks. Neatly folded in a paper bag of the lingerie shop.
Me in my brandnew Calvin Klein