Every morning I sit on my cabana deck at The Playa and watch as the staff arrive for work. Coffee is first as they chat and putter about the kitchen. Once the sun rises, one of the young men will grab a rake and start to groom the compound, picking up leaves and any debris deposited from the day before. It will not be long before the women in the restaurant have a broom in hand and they all begin to move the sand.
This is a beach and beaches have sand. There are some in Europe that are rock, but to me these are not beaches, just coast line. I could not see myself lying on rock and thinking I was at the beach. There is just something profoundly wrong with that. To me, the words beach and sand, go hand in hand.
Even though sand is just basically a very tiny rock, with no legs to move around with, it does just that. It latches on to your sandals and shoes or to your bare feet. It gets on your clothes and in your hair. Not in large masses but in small granules and as you move, so does it. It is light enough to be moved by the wind or be kicked up when you walk through it. In the course of a day, a single grain of sand could relocate hundreds of feet or even miles from where it started the day.
At The Playa, it gets on floors and tables and chairs. The beach loungers must be swept and the gazebo tables, which are out on the sand, cleared of its presence daily. Nobody complains of the constant chore to make it be gone every morning. Nor that by the end of the day it is back, where it does not belong. It is a fact of life at The Playa and all other playas around the world. Moving the sand is what they must do. It is a war that cannot be won, only fought.