She watched him descend the cliff from the other side of the cove. He moved confidently and fluently, and in no time he strode out onto the white strand. The beach was deserted, save for a flock of gulls idling in the shallows near a sandbank. He stood near the water's edge, as though listening, looking out to sea. Two grey smudges floated on the horizon out west, odd, he thought, because no islands were marked on his map at this point. Only the lazy soughing of waves on shingle broke the silence, an indolent, sensuous sound. Then he turned around and looked in her direction. For a moment she thought he had seen her, but as she watched he was simply looking around to make sure he was alone. The strand was empty. Only she knew of this place. It was often deserted at the height of the holiday season, but she knew no one would be here in mid-October.
He stretched out his arms and looked up at the sun, soaking up its benign warmth and comfort. The vast blue vault was empty except for a few stationary cotton wool clouds. A gentle wind from the South rippled his white shirt, as he let his rucksack slip to the sand. He glanced around again more slowly this time, paying particular attention to the cliff top. Then he paused, as though listening carefully again, to be absolutely certain. Her heart quickened slightly; she knew what he was about.
He took a dark blue towel from his rucksack, unbuttoned his shirt and placed it carefully inside. Then he sat down on the sand, unlaced his boots and took them off. He stood up to unbuckle his belt, and then pulled down his shorts and underpants, placing them inside the rucksack. She was less than fifty yards away, concealed behind a large boulder at the foot of the cliff. He had an athlete's build; his broad muscular shoulders and arms were tanned light brown.
He turned to look around him once more. Again, he paused, looking directly in her direction. She held her breath, her mouth dry as she stared at his limp sex. Then he turned and ran the few yards into the green Atlantic, plunging into the torpid ocean, kicking it into white flurries as his feet and arms sprang into action.
He was a powerful swimmer, and once out into deeper water he headed off parallel to the shore making for the headland to the right. He clambered onto the rocks at the point, and then dived back in towards the headland on the left. He covered the two hundred yards or so in a matter of minutes, before turning back and heading in towards the beach. He stopped to frolic in the water, like a seal. She could hear him splashing and thrashing the water, sighing, and crying out with joy and pleasure at the gentle touch of the cool ocean on his naked body. She had done this herself many times and knew well the sense of freedom he was experiencing, the sense of being an animal and a part of nature, of having shed all the conventions and obligations that come with human clothing. She wanted to be there.
He dabbed himself dry and spread his towel on the sand. The gentle warmth of the sun, and the lazy murmuring of the waves lulled him into a dreamy state. He had walked twelve miles before coming across the beach and was pleasantly tired. He turned over to expose his back to the sun. He was drowsy and reckoned that if sleep came it would be less embarrassing that way should anyone chance across him. His skin tingled after the sea, and the sun, wind and salt played curious melodies on it as his eyelids grew heavy and his breathing deepened. He sighed and was asleep.
Suddenly he was awake. He had no idea how long he had been asleep for, but he sensed a presence. He must have turned over at some point, for the sun blazed through his closed eyelids. He thought he heard something just behind his head, a footfall perhaps, then the sun dimmed momentarily as though a shadow had flitted across his face. He sat up and opened his eyes. He was dazzled, but as his eyes accommodated to the glare he could see a figure standing over him, a woman. He was in her shadow and with the sun behind her he couldn't see her face. He whipped the towel from under himself to hide his nakedness. All he could see was the outline of her figure and her shoulder-length hair being teased by the gentle wind. She had a strong presence. It was the way she stood there, looking silently down at his vulnerability.
"Well, well. Look what the tide's brought in," she said in the softest of brogues. "That's the strangest piece of driftwood that I've ever seen on this or any other beach. What's your name?"
"Richard," he replied, struggling to sit up and to preserve his modesty with the towel at the same time.
"Well then, I'll call you Dick" she said, with a smirk. "Dick. All Irishmen with the name of Richard are Dicks. As a matter of fact all men are Dicks" she said.
"But I'm not Irish" he replied.
"That doesn't matter. You're still a Dick." He couldn't see her face clearly and squinted up at her, one hand clutching his towel, the other attempting to shade his eyes from the sun.
"So what's your name?" he asked.
"Áine," she replied in a gentle falling cadence that caressed his ears. "Do you like it?"
"It's a lovely name. Irish?"
"Oh yes" she whispered. "Very."
"But I can't see you. The sun's right behind you."
"Yes" she replied. "I know." She didn't move.
"It'd be good to see who I'm talking to."
"OK then, you will," she said, moving out of the sun to kneel on the sand beside him. "There. Is that better?"
