On Shifting Sands

I researched the island extensively online before deciding it was the perfect place for our honeymoon. Marketeers sold the island to tourists by labelling it the 'Hawaii of Europe'. I read that the tourists themselves often referred to it in amazement as ‘Jurassic Park’ island. I read blog posts that described the lush landscape:

‘The coastline is a procession of dizzying volcanic rock cliffs capped with deep green vegetation. At the base of these sheer drops, fat turquoise swells speed over black and white volcanic rock boulders towards high cliffs, where they break in plumes of foam and white mist’.

But the natural beauty was not the reason I chose this island for our romantic vacation. The reason was the sand, or lack thereof. Most tourists love sand. Because sand means beaches. And beaches means beach bars. And beach bars means cocktails. This is the thought process of the hordes as they hover over the ‘book now’ button.

But there was no sand on this island, in the traditional sense. Except for the fake beach on the east coast. There was normal sand there. But they shipped that sand over from Morocco. It had to be replenished each spring before parasites like me and my new wife descended. The tides would slowly eat away at it during the summer months, lapping at it and returning the grains to the abyss of the Atlantic. Maybe some of the grains eventually made it back to Morocco. But most were confined to the depths. I often thought about who the Moroccan entrepreneur was who figured out he could export the Sahara for money. I imagined him living in luxury on the proceeds of his exports. Selling sand to the island that didn’t have any.

But while there was no sand here, there was a beach. 'A beach without sand? But how?' I hear you gasp. But this was no ordinary beach, my friends. It was a black beach. ‘Black sand beach 5kms!’ red lettered signs screamed on the side of the motorway. ‘Visit the eight wonder of the world, our black sand beach! (Only 5 euros).’

The black beach was on the north coast. It was one of only a handful of places on the entire island where the sea didn’t meet the cliffs at a ninety degree angle. The ocean touched the earth obtusely here. And so a ‘beach’ existed. When one stood in the beach carpark -- where a spotty faced teenager collected the entry fee -- it did indeed appear to be a real beach. Newlyweds came to get their photos taken under a small waterfall at the far end of the beach. Many wore their wedding attire, white dresses and black suits. They would stand under the waterfall and get all wet. It was very romantic. If you waited around long enough after the photoshoot ended, you would often see a shivering, towel-wrapped bride discreetly disposing of her wedding dress in the carpark trashcan.

Now we must discuss the sand, which was black instead of white. But appearance aside, this just was just not like real sand. What the marketeers called black sand was in fact tiny rock pebbles that had been worn down into small pieces by eons of tidal movement. These were pellets, not grains. And their much larger size than normal sand brought with it many logistical issues.

The first issue was swimming. Even if there wasn’t sharks patrolling close offshore, which there was, swimming here was bad for your health. The waves were often vicious, and the shore break was riddled with the ‘sand’. Letting one of these waves break against your skin was similar to towelling yourself down with a length of sandpaper. Thousands of pebbles smashing against your body at seventy kilometres an hour. Not enjoyable.

The second problem was that standing still on this beach was frequently a lethal decision. If you stood near the shore with the water lapping at your feet for long enough, you would die. The sea water sucked the pebbles from underneath one’s feet at incredible speed. Within twenty seconds your legs would be submerged to the knee. Within two minutes your entire body would be underground and you would die a most horrible death, sucking water and rock into your lungs. Because of this, the tourists were encouraged to scurry over the sand at a fast pace. Many held hands, trying to retain some sense of romance, as they stumbled and tripped over the bay like drunk crabs. Many died over the years. Sometimes it was the sharks, but usually it was the sand. ‘Help me dear!’ a wife would bellow to her newly-minted husband, up to her neck already in the blackness. And though he would pull and pull, it was no use. The sand would not let her go. Sometimes the husbands were swallowed up with the wife. But this was rare, and usually they gave up in time to save themselves. It was a peculiar thing to watch. A person who had only recently pledged to ‘in sickness and in health, till death do us part’ abandoning their significant other to preserve their own life. But us humans were strange like that. We often said one thing but acted in the opposite way. The marketeers kept these disappearances out of the press. Death was bad for business.

I had no such illusions that I would be as brave as those who valiantly tried to help their significant other escape the clutches of the sand. Not because I didn’t think that I possessed the ability to be courageous. But because I came here to kill my wife. She was rich you see. And very pretty. And the truth of it was that although I loved her, I probably didn’t even like her very much. But she was very pretty.

I don’t know when I decided that I would kill her. The idea came to me slowly. It was residual, like an egg timer filling up. And one day I woke up and it was there in my head, fully formed. I would kill her and then her money would be mine. Then I would be rich. And free.

'Let's go for a walk on the beach, honey', I'd groaned sarcastically, laying in bed that morning.

'Don't be such a stick in the mud, lover!' she'd squealed, jumping out of the bed excitedly.

You see, I'd make her think it was her idea. Once I pitched the island destination, it was only a matter of time before she did her own research, and saw the waterfall photos of other couples on the black beach.

'Oh honey, we HAVE to, we just have to!' she'd informed me. 'I'll pack my dress and your suit, I'll organise everything, you won't even have to WORRY about it!'

'Okay' I'd chuckled.' Anything for you, sweetness'.

The photoshoot itself went fine. I felt awkward and cold standing there in my suit as the water cascaded down on us. But I smiled a toothy smile. The photographer was a nice guy. A local. I think he sensed my discomfort and he took the photos quickly.

'We're all done here' he muttered, looking at his camera display. He was moving in small circles so he didn't sink. My wife jogged over to where he was and peered over his shoulder. Now they both moved in unison. 'Oh my God I LOVE these photos!' she cheered. 'Honey, I am de-ceased. These are amaze'.

'Great!' I chuckled.

'Hey babe, let's check out the shoreline?' I said.

'Sure!' she beamed, jogging back to me and taking me by the hand. We scuttled away from the photographer and made our way towards the water. 'Do you think it's safe?' she asked breathlessly.

'Sure is' I smiled. 'We just have to keep moving'.

We reached the shoreline and moved at a brisk walking pace, parallel to the waves. I turned to her and kissed her passionately. I rested both of my hands on her shoulders. Then I applied as much downward pressure as I could, pushing her down with all my strength. She sank instantly, her shins disappearing under the sand. I stared down at her. She was considerably shorter than me now. She looked at me in confusion. 'Honey I'm stuck!' she whispered.

'I know', I said, before turning away and jogging towards the carpark.