Sketching a Moment: Beaches

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While traveling, Phyllida Bluemel draws what is around her — her pen and pencil drawings below are accompanied by “verbal sketches” that set the scene for the things and people she saw in her little corner of the world at that moment.

[pictured above]

The Shore: Coquimbo, Chile. Morning.

Playa Herradura (Horseshoe Beach) is more or less empty. I’m with two friends, lying in the sun and out of the cool wind. We’ve deviated from the tourist trail to visit someone we knew in Santiago. It’s warm, but it is not summer yet – so we have the beach to ourselves. Coquimbo is an industrial port and fishing town. Screeching seagulls compete with the roar of lorries from the nearby main road. But down by the water it is quiet. There, a local father and son are searching for crabs. A huge rusted ship is moored within the bay. Not many feet have trodden the sand since last summer. Untouched, it is laden with the sea’s imperfect rejects – barnacle-warped shells, driftwood and plastic re-sculpted by the elements. It’s a museum of curiosities, of which the man-made is nearly indistinguishable from the natural. A carpet of sun-bleached seaweed crunches underfoot. I scavenge, wiping sea-foam from my chosen artifacts, and draw an inventory of my salt-scented loot as it dries in the sun.
The split

The Split: Caye Caulker, Belize. Afternoon.

It only takes about ten minutes from anywhere on the tiny island to make it to The Split – a passage of crystal clear ocean that bisects the Caye, cleft in two by a hurricane in the 1960s. So, when the rain stops falling and the tropical storm passes, within minutes the waterside bar is heaving and towels are flung down to reserve spaces on the sand. It seems every tourist, islander and dog has stopped their day to worship the sun, no grudge held for its failure to show up earlier. ‘Go slow’ is the island’s mantra and nobody needs reminding. The band from last night turns up and starts playing the same Bob Marley covers again. Those who aren’t napping are dancing, or swimming. Bus- and boat-weary travellers flock to the island, not to be cultural or adventurous, but to relax. They are here now, sharing a bucket of beer with fresh friends, comparing snorkelling stories, exchanging contact details with the promise of reunions back in Europe, or South America, or the U.S., or anywhere. The sun starts to set. We leave The Split to find a perch on the west side of the island and watch it go down.
Beach football

The Beach: Tulum, Mexico. Midday.

The sky is clouded over, everything is pale – white sky meets white sand. Except, even in the absence of sun, the water on Tulum beach remains a deep turquoise. A tattered goal, its torn net flying in the warm breeze, has inspired a game of football. Sand flying everywhere, the players run too fast for me to draw them. I try nonetheless. It starts small, a kick-about between some people from my hostel. They are challenged by a few local boys. Things start to get serious. Gradually a few more people saunter over and join in. The World Cup replicated in miniature, with representation from Germany, Switzerland, Argentina, Mexico, the United States. For that short space in time, any language barrier falls away – competition is universal. Whoops, jibes and cheers need no translation. After the game everybody scatters again, breathless and laughing, back to their respective friends on the beach.
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