Nature like history repeats itself, the jagged edges of the clouds fold into the shape of the mountains, which look like undulating bodies from a distance but up closer show their limestone ribs, which are echoed underwater in the sand that carries the traces of each wave that rocks past, and the waves are foamy white fingers that stretch into clouds on the shore. We’ve been here a week and each day I am smelling sunscreen and salt water; I am hearing languages I do not speak and children screaming, international; I am tasting fruits that make me want fruit all the time. There are so many bodies and shapes of bodies decorated in multiple tattoo styles and wrapped in varying amounts of fabric and plopped into furniture that inevitably leaves creases that are welt-red until soothed in the bluest water. Despite sunscreen and shade umbrellas I am covered in hives from the sun and it makes me itchy but I’m still too happy to be cranky. A piece of my brain is screaming louder than the children and with less joy but I run my eyes across cloud mountain water sand wave until it fades and at night my bed turns to water, gently rocking until I sleep more than I’ve slept in months.