An Umbrella Painting

How close is "too close for comfort"? I don´t believe there is a limit here on Ipanema in the sand along the raging Atlantic in Rio. This beach is even more crowded than the thousands of apartment complexes that line it. Colorful umbrellas pounded into the sand would paint the entirety of the scene from a bird´s eye view. Only pockets of sand would show. Miles and miles of beach - miles and miles of striped chairs and thonged bottoms. The smell of burning skin and cigarettes is juxtaposed by the fresh watermelon being sold from a tray on top of a man´s brow and by the warm salty sea air that wafts across the sand every once in a while. Posing in the sun and shouting at the few clouds when they conceal it, these people have no problem being almost naked, inches away from strangers. A young woman sprawls in her chair facing away from the sea, towards the sun, while an enormous octogenarian arranges his speedo a foot and a half away from her on his water-facing foldup. When I stand to go for a dip, my skin dripping with sweat, I realize that I may not be able to even find a way through the people to the water. I tiptoe between empty coconuts with straws hanging out of them, sunscreen, beer cozies, legs, breasts and back hair, to finally find the waves. They are powerful waves here, and each wave is full of more people.