OCR Text |
Show I do not look in mirrors, but I have seen myself grow old by watching the island change. I know that most of my teeth, the important ones, are gone. That my arteries and bowels do not perform so smoothly as those of a young man. I know I should stay off my feet, spend less time in the sun, get more rest. But I have no intention of laying down now. Not here. What the tourists don't see is that it is Tenerife which is finished, not me. They don't see that the radio music is playing in my head, that I am finally hearing its message. The young man said nothing when I got slowly to my feet, but I know his eyes followed me down the beach. I gave no explanation. At the end of the sand, out of his sight and well beyond the last tourist, I stopped. A light breeze was working at the heat of the day, playing with my beard. The sky was perfectly clear. I looked out over the expanse of silver-blue water which in one direction slapped at the white shores of Africa and in the other, so much farther away, touched upon the coast of America; then I turned my back to the water, stepped off the sand and onto the grass which covers the lower reaches on this side of the island. I chose an easy route up through the sloping pasture-land. As |