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Quiet beach

It was her first trip to the Canary Islands, even though she had long dreamed of doing so, and after stopping at Las Americas on the recommendation of an old friend, she quickly explored all the hot spots of this «dog» island up and down with her usual energy. Everything was cool and wonderful. Lots of impressions, lots of photos. Selfies were uploaded to the Internet with enviable regularity, but then she got bored, and so strongly and sharply that after lying in a hotel for almost the entire week, as if in a lazy fever, she left subscribers in complete ignorance of her plans. At one point, she even seriously thought about her mental health and leaned on the favorite drink of the conquistadors — rum. It wasn’t until four days before departure, and circumstances forced her to plunge into her work on the continent with a clear head, that she seemed to feel a new strength in herself. But these forces no longer pushed her to noisy entertainment, but suggested that she concentrate on herself and spend the rest of her vacation in complete solitude, enjoying harmony with nature. So she put on a pair of sunglasses, so as not to be recognized by new acquaintances, whom she always acquired withamazing ease, and beganto go out in the evenings to walk around the neighborhood incognito. For the convenience of walking on stones, she even bought light sneakers, a T-shirt and shorts, although she always considered herself an extreme conservative and before that adhered to the strict rule that a real French woman should not go out without a dress and heels under any circumstances.

She especiallyliked the beautiful evening beaches of Adehi, not far from some fishing village whose name she could not remember, the elegant embankment itself, connecting all these beaches into one, and insanely beautiful sunsets. There, under the rustle of palm leaves and the sound of the waves, she would spend long hours looking out at the ocean, at the sun drowning in the mighty waves, and counting the little boats that were swaying on these waves like white gulls. But the idyll of the last days of rest was crossed out by a gathering of surfers. A major annual event was planned for the island in January, and all the exits to the beaches were soon packed with buses from Europe, and Las Americas itself was swarming with crowds of crazy people from almost all over the world, screaming, screaming, with some boards under their arms, looking for death in the ocean depths.

One of the locals, a street musician from the Golden Mile, I think, had once told her about hippies and meditators who had chosen one of the wildс, black, volcanic beaches somewhere on the west coast.

«Literally, a strip of fifty meters, senora,» he said, strumming Spanish tunes on nylon strings, «and you can’t swim up from the ocean. There are sharp rocks and underwater shoals. Perhaps the most secluded place in all of Tenerife.

There, he said, it was not so easy to get even to the omniscient guides, because the water basseun was well hidden between notcriminal rocks, but this guy claimed that he knew the secret exit to the ocean-a narrow, winding mountain path, and could accompany anyone on a bicycle for fifty Euros. But at the time, his suggestion of going tohell together had seemed too risky. Nowthis hidden place beckoned to her, depriving her of the instinct of self-preservation, and she decided to ask the musician in more detail. He often strummed his guitar, sitting nonchalantly on a cafe bench under a palmtree, and it was easy to find him.

— If I see these boarders there again, I will vote for the nationalists next fall! she admitted, almost blown away by the January wind.

Just then, a crowd of people with planks rushed out of the hotel and ran past, obviously in a hurry to catch a big wave.

«No, senora! The musician took her last remark as a joke. — I assure you, it’s an ideal place for those who are looking for themselves, and tomorrow morning at the first cockcrow we will ride with you for silence. It will be a grand journey.

They sat down for a five-minute chat in the cafe to discuss the details of the route and get to know each other better, and she was very happy not only with the grilled goat cheese with jam and octopus vinaigrette.

«I love the coffee here, senora,» he sipped passionately, «probably the best in Tenerife, and no worse than in Strasse.

He took another sip from his cup, relishingit in a long gulp, and with the unmistakable experience of a mature woman, she could tell that this funny guy had a lot of love potential.

«And there, won’t be anyone on this beach?»

«With any luck, senora, no one. Maybe a couple of tents. After all, I’m not the only one who knows the cherished path… ButI assure you, all these people will not be interested in us, and no questions, stupid pestering… They came to meditate, and we, too, will spread a large white towel on the black sand and indulge in dreams.

She looked at him questioningly. The word» surrender» came out of his hot coffee mouth with a sexy undertone, and she caught it, smelling the long-forgotten pleasant trail, but she didn’t pry as before, but smiled back. After all, this guy was about twenty years younger and she liked him.

«Let’s dream,» she repeated, savoring each syllable. «How well said, Diego.

«We’ll just be quiet, listening to the waves whisper,» he continued to tempt her, smacking his lips. «Can I have another cup of coffee, senora?»

She nodded eagerly to the waiter.

«What about Las Americas?» — What is it? «she asked after a while, looking into the black eyes of her unusual companion.

«What can I say?» Once upon a time, senora, there was a desert here. There was no sign of a resort town. My great grandfather used to extract salt from sea water here… Besides, enterprising people created a fairy tale here, brought a lot of sand from the Sahara. It’s hard to believe that when I was little, I almost fell under the bucket of an excavator. He almost cut me in half. Look at this, senora! And the narrator suddenly pulled up his threadbare sweater and started showing off his bulky abs, which barely showed the appendicitis scar. «Since then, my mother, thank Saint Anthony, says I was born in a shirt.

The mention of h