Yes, but Fabio started it…

I went out to Makapu’u beach because I was tired of the crowded beach scene at Waikiki. Trying to get enough sand space to lay a towel down is dicey enough, but you never know if the person next to you is one of the Usual Suspects:

Is he/she:

A. The Talker.

Who the frig talks on a cellphone on the beach? Wait, what? You’re telling the person on the other line who is in a snowstorm that you are…gasp..lying on the beach? Oh my god! Can you hear me now? Your network called: you are an idiot! Sand is the natural enemy of your Nokia!

B. The Child.

The lovable little tyke that will inevitably run into the water only to emerge again, and shake itself like a dog, spraying you with unwelcome sand and water, and may occasionally fling a plastic shovel in your direction, prompting you to give yourself a little mental high five for not procreating.

C.

The Make-Out Couple.

At first they’re just barely tolerable love-dovey, “schnookums this” and “pookums that,” and "I love you so much, I can’t believe that we’re honeymooning in Hawaii." And then her top is undone and you can’t see his hands anymore and you’re pretty sure that some people would pay money to see this; you’re just not one of them.

D.

The Stealth Bomber.

One minute you’re soaking in the sun, the next you are embattled with a toxic aroma reminiscent of macadamia nuts, pineapple, bacon, eggs and whatever was on the free continental breakfast at the hotel and you stare over at the perp, usually an old guy with white hair growing off his gut in tufts and you think, “good god man, what died inside you?”

And finally, my personal favorite:

E.

The Dumbass who won’t take the hint that you are not interested.

No, I don’t want your number, your name, or the name of the place where you are staying. No, I don’t need help applying sunscreen. No, I did not miss a spot on my back, I’m very conscientious about sunscreen application, thank you very much. Yes, I do have a boyfriend. Yes, he is an escaped convict. Yes, he did do 3-5 for deadly assault with his bare hands. He should be here any moment. Why isn't he here yet? Because all that time in solitary confinement made him sensitive to the sun.

So yes, tired of this cast of colorful characters, I get on a bus and head to Makapu’u which is in Southern Oahu and is only crowded if you’re a surfer, not a beachgoer.

Makapu’u means “bulging eye.” Not quite a nice moniker for such a becoming spot, but really, maybe they should have called it “bulging disc” because if you fall down on the hike into the beach, your chiropractor will be picking porous gray rock out of your spine for the rest of your natural life.

From the shores of Makapu’u, you can see Rabbit Island, which does not have a fun Hawaiian name that would be difficult to pronounce. It’s called Rabbit Island because the savages who used to live out there would hunt the rabbits, roast them, and then wear their pelts as hats…Kidding! The island resembles a lop-eared rabbit swimming out of the surf. I will attest that rabbits can swim. My beloved Buttons (hey don’t look at me, I didn’t name him), god rest his furry little soul, was a great swimmer. Whether he swam out of love of the water or fear of drowning, I will never know. For those of you who are curious, rabbits swim just like dogs. (See top pic, I kinda see the rabbit. Could just have easily been called Dog Island).

Anyway, like I said, gorgeous scenery, white sand, blue water, surfers out in the distance. Not many people on the beach. I walk all the way down to the edge and pass this:

(SEE LAST PICTURE OF FABIO)

Clearly, this dude and his lady are European. Only the EU makes “swimsuits” such as these and wears them without a trace of irony or wedgie. On Europeans have butts that look like this. I just kinda gawk for a minute. And then I snap a picture because well…I do it for you, gentle readers. All for you.

Fabio and his thong go swimming and lady proceeds to disrobe. All the way. Total nudity. I sit up and look around. Seriously? Did I miss a posted sign? Nudists welcome? To be fair, we (me, Fabio and friend are sort of cut off from the rest of the beach by rock croppings), but really? Nekkid?

Fabio emerges from the surf. My eyes are burning out of my skull from the image of his little mankini and I’m chewing the skin off the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing loudly and hysterically like a baboon. Clearly, I am a beacon of maturity.

So I’ve got the naked Europeans to the left and nothing to my right but the cliff wall. No surfers, no beachgoers, no beach patrol. And so I lie there a minute and think, why not?

Tan lines are sooooo 2008, and why not start of the new year sans weird white lines, at least where it matters. So I decide to tan topless.

(Pause. Am waiting for Mom to stop crying).

(Am still waiting).

We good? Awesome. So there I was tanning beneath arching, primordial cliff walls and crashing wave, glorious sun streaming down, totally topless, and you know what happened then?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The sun did not fall from the sky. The beach patrol did not come issue me a citation for public lewdness. Japanese tourists did not appear wielding flashing cameras. A bird did not crap on me causing me to jump up and run around the beach attracting attention to my toplessness. Nothing. I didn’t even get a sunburn.

The only thing that did happen is that I wound up with no tan lines and ended up looked pretty spiffy in my going-out dress that night as a result. Also, I would now say that I’m less closer to “sand” colored and approaching “nut” colored on the tan spectrum thanks to my scrupulous applications of Maui Baby. Excellent.

All I have to say for myself is: Mom, blame Fabio…he started it.