bodies. children. small, medium, more medium, less medium. brown, pink, black, white. wriggling, sliding, jumping, climbing, sitting, lying, crawling, swinging, rowing, waiting in perpetual motion, getting up, running, un settling, ever all over. water flying, droplets brilliant and as unpredictable and silver as mercury, in the sun. streams, jets, bubbles, rivulets, sprays, pools, splashes, drizzles, froths, spatters and squirts. mouths are open. calling, screaming, crying, gasping, laughing, catching shocked breaths of sea air. mothers hover over small lives. fathers hover over mothers hovering over small lives. water slides and jumping castles and rowing pools and obstacle courses with rope ladders, plastic pillars and plastic holes, small water catches along sides, at ends, at starts, collecting or emitting short limbs in or from small water. stretching, waving, swinging, pulling, holding, flailing, sunning, slowly turning berry brown. we lounge on the grass. the palms are huge, their shade adequate for our settlements of small circles with umbrellas, tables, folding chairs, cool boxes with icy tins of deliciousness. fizzy drinks, milkshakes of chocolate, beer, still water, sparkling litchi flavoured coolness and thick guava slush. fronds swing to and fro in the breeze. over on the other side the ocean is shiny and choppy, waves lively and busily rolling onto the beach. the sea sand is littered with mussel shells and green and brown bamboo. towels are sand and stones are round, inviting me to pick them up and spirit them first to the house of my hosts and then to leave it in that car trunk for a month before carrying it up flights to rest in my fish tank, making my fish wish they could swim home. i whisper to them that i will take them one day. it smells like the ocean because this is where our ocean starts. water looks cold, is cold, but many figures disappear under waves and swells, over and over, only to re-emerge time after time from cyndi lauper’s mouth.