An hour on a Latvian beach

An hour on a Latvian Beach by Aisla McArthur

As I tuck into my bowl of luke warm pasta, now full of sandy ketchup, I glance up. My sun has been blocked. All I can see is row upon row of fat, orange, wrinkly bodies, standing with their arms stuck out to the side.

A high pitched voice chimes in and, without even looking, I know it is Maria. Her voice is smooth and flows with a delicate elegance.

“They think that they will get more tanned standing up than lying down ‘cause they’re closer to the sun,” she chuckles.

A humungous, oily ball of orange rolls in front of me and remarks,

“What lovely weather we’re having,” but in Latvian, of course. My friend had to translate this, so my roar of laughter was a little late, but still appropriate. I manage to calm myself eventually though.

You can practically smell the burning flesh as the scorching midday sun seers the meat on innocent sun bathers. I continue to scan the beach and notice more and more strings of buoys, washed up on the beach by a blistering wind. Helpless.

Most people on this Latvian beach are, well, Latvian. However, occasionally you will notice the coarse, hazy voice of a Russian business man on holiday. He looks awkward, since he is skinny, pale and has a strangely hairy chest. In this case, much like a gosling following its mother to the water, the man fills a gap in the orange line of people and soon he is browning in the sandy Latvian frying pan.

I finish my meal and need a drink so I brush the sharp sand off my legs and march to the small café with Maria and Will. We find some strange Latvian ice-lollies in the most unusual shapes and sizes. For instance, popcorn flavoured lollies, in the shape of a fish. In what universe does popcorn make people think of a fish? Anyway, we find a regular cola flavoured treat, in the regular rectangular shape and head back to the section of the beach we have adopted and called our own. The lolly is refreshing yet I find it scary to think of what goes into these strange, sugary popsicles that can only be found here. They are delicious though, so I munch on it and it is gone within a minute.

I decide to cool off in the murky green waters of the seaweed infested ocean. The many water-dwelling creatures that inhabit this small pond spring to mind, but Maria insists we go deeper. Since I am the guest and have never been very good at saying “No”, we continue. I don’t see any fish but it is fresh water, so I didn’t expect to. Soon the sea is full of cheery, burnt holiday-makers. They too seem to be enjoying the sea that would camouflage better in a forest than a tree would. An American family stand in the shallowest part of the sea, the 5 year old girl wants to go further but the father, with a wobbling lip, says that it is dangerous. The water is nice and cool yet tepid. The relief from the frying ball of gas turning me into a ripe tomato is sensational. I plunge myself under the rippling surface and my eyes fill with the fresh Latvian sea. I brought goggles but I can see now that they are not needed. Birthe, Maria’s mum, calls out to us and we rush in to greet her with beaming smiles.

“I am going back to the house with Jane, you can stay out here but not in the ocean,” she states. We reluctantly agree and clamber out of the murky waters and onto dry land.

So, sitting back on the beach in our fluffy blue towels with dolphins on, I giggle to myself as I reminisce about the day’s sights. Soon Maria and I are chatting about what flavours of ice-cream they could create next. Will says that we are being immature and that they would never create an ice-cream that tastes of wet dog or leaves in the shape of a computer or a house. We ignore this and continue to make up disgusting flavoured treats. Will announces that he is going back to the house where he can talk about important stuff like, well, he can’t think of anything so storms off looking rather silly.

Once again, I compose myself and try to catch my breath. I commence another scan of the beach when I hear my friend, roaring with laughter. I follow her shaking finger, and end up at a sunbather, lying down, thankfully. She is skinny and golden brown in colour, the result of an hour in the blazing sun. Her long blond hair flows carelessly behind her as she sleeps in paradise. A group of gawking men seem to be edging ever closer to the bronze figure. As I focus my eyes, I notice that, no, she is not wearing a skin coloured bikini top.

She is sunbathing – European style.