Watching Dr. Henderson, who is about eighty,
take his yearly sunbath on the beach:
he unfolds the cretonne-covered lounge
chair, taking approximately 20 minutes
before getting it to face the sun just right; 
getting it as level as possible on the 
Slightly sloping, gravelly sand above the
low-tide line.  He sits, is about to lie 
down, then interrupts himself to get
the cushion just right under his head, 
and the towel just right on the end where
his feet will rest.  He has almost lain down, 
when he decides to take his loafers off,
and then his black socks.  Having pushed
the socks into the shoes in a thorough way, 
and placed the shoes neatly beside each other
on the sand to his left, he finds he's hot,
sweating already.  So fumblingly, but
determinedly, he gets off the lounge and
starts to walk to the water.

His feet crimp on the pebbles.  It's a slow 
process, but finally he feels the water 
between his toes, and he stops. He looks
out over the water, at the spread of it, 
that ripples fairly calmly toward shore:
there is a little breeze, but nothing 
dangerous.  In his loose, dark blue boxer 
shorts, showing a wide flat ass and a high
round belly, sloping shoulders, flaccid arms, 
the hands hanging, his pink (but not bald)
scalp shining along the precisely straight
parting of his wavy leghorn-rooster-white
hair, Dr. Henderson sallies into the water.
Slowly.  Slowly, and with many hesitations, 
he takes a step --- or rather, a shuffle ---
with the left foot, then the right, then 
pauses, wrists swinging, thumbs and fingers 
rubbing together, while he gazes out upon
the small waves --- also carefully gazing down
through them --- scanning the bottom, making sure
nothing harmful lurks there.

Inch by inch, up the thin shins and sagging 
thighs the water rises, cool, then cold,
then a little colder.  He shudders, but
presses on, when the water touches and sets
afloat, within the ballooning shorts, his
wrinkled testicles and shrunken dong.
In about 20 minutes, he has taken the dozen, or
so, shuffles resulting in the water reaching 
his waist.  Then he lifts his knees!  He's
sitting in the water, entirely wet to his chin!
He floats!

Later, having gamely struggled back to shore,
he eventually settles himself on his back
on the lounge.  His white head is placed
exactly in the center of the cushion.  His
long feet, pronated on the callused yellow heels,
are symmetrically set on the folded towel.
Hands, palms down, by the sides of the dripping 
dark blue shorts, the shirred bellyband biting 
into his thick middle, above which a thin mat
of kinky gray hair flutters in the hot breeze;
pink, big-nosed face, with eyelids and lips firmly
shut, turned up to the sky, Dr. Henderson,
with long-practiced dignity and deliberation,
begins his yearly sunbath on the beach.


 =Tansy Mattingly