Two Sunburns

Sepia Saturday: Reading Lolita at the beach

     I blame Vladimir Nabakov for my first literary sunburn. If it hadn’t been for Lolita perhaps I’d have fewer barnacles on my legs today. 

     It happened on a weekend camping trip in Baja at La Bufadora, Mexico, circa 1971.  A dozen of us, family and friends, rented a large tent, and drove south across the border early Saturday morning. The day began overcast, a typical May gray, and after settling in, I changed into my polka dot bikini, grabbed my book and stretched out on the sand. Soon the fog burned off and I applied the suntan lotion/basting sauce of the day--baby oil and mercurochrome. In those days, we tried to get a tan, not prevent one, ignorant as we were to the dangers of the sun. As I lay, propped on my elbows, lost in the brilliant writing and the antics of Humbert Humbert, the backs of my legs roasted to medium rare.

     That night in the huge tent we had a nutty and memorable time. The tent, as it turned out, wasn't quite large enough, so we had to all roll over together and exit en masse to pee. We were awake most of the night convulsed with laughter at our poor planning, but at some point I began to feel the skin on my thighs shrinking. By early morning I had trouble bending my knees. Eventually I had to resort to a lock-kneed walk, like a North Korean soldier. Monday, the throbbing and swelling was so severe, I had to call in sick to work. There was no way I could pull panty hose over my tender flesh. While the blisters on my thighs healed I read Pale Fire and Pnin. A week later, Hell’s itch took over and nearly drove me mad. It took a month to fully recover and while I regret the sun damage, I don’t regret the weekend with Vladimir. 

     Khaled Hosseini was responsible for the second burn. In Bali, I was stretched out on a lounge, sensibly shaded under an umbrella. I spent a glorious afternoon there with Khaled Hosseini, gobbling up his novel, "A Thousand Splendid Suns." Just about when the two women protagonists are getting ready to murder their husband—it was a polygamous arrangement—I felt a twinge on my foot and realized it had slipped into the hot Balinese sun. Far from a thousand suns, it was just one, but equatorial and ferocious. From it’s cooked look, my foot had been baking for a while. I yanked it back into the shade under the umbrella and unable to quit, kept reading, until in the story, a shovel rains down on bad-hubby’s head several times. It wasn’t a serious burn that time; it soon faded and aside from a temporary limp, I was fine. 

     It’s rare these days to see someone reading a real book on the beach. Younger people read indoors or by pools, on their Kindles, I guess. Or they walk, and listen to books on earphones. And they’re careful about sunscreen and avoiding sunburn. 

     Decades past my polka-dot bikini heyday, soon I’m going to spend a reading day in Oceanside. My beach reading costume is now a pair of nylon shorts and a T-shirt. Covering up is key because nobody, not even me, needs to see my cellulite and saggy bits. Only a bit of thigh will be allowed to show— an older and wiser version of the poor burned mess of my youth. How I look forward to snuggling into the sand and preparing for a second seduction, fifty years after the first! 

I’ll open my book: 

“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo.Lee.Ta.” Lolita by Valdimir Nabakov

For the Umbrella prompt; Richard’s mother and grandmother on the patio of the Studio City house. They set their books aside to pose together for this photo.