GETTING BURNT.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16940, 15 January 1923, Page 6

GETTING BURNT.

CULTIVATING A TAN. “MARIA, THIS IS BUSS.” (Written for the “Star.”) Yon just lie down in tlie SLushin* in a spot most accessible to the largo feet ot passing multitudes looking lor similar spots on the burning sand. And there you lie. It is a. fascinating pastime—the dolce far niente of the lotus eater. And Sinn Fein, Ruhr occupations and Reform caucuses axe figments of a fevered brain. You just Jie. And the sun beats down. To prove it, one need only take a trip to JNew Brighton a 113’ fine day, butI the best time is a gala occasion, when mum, dad and the numerous bairns I make one wild swoop for out-of-doors \ . though they had Just discovered their way of salvation. They seised ( last Saturday—Gala Day—as such an i opportunity. They tumbled on to the wide shelving beach, spattering the sand with their rainbow costumes, I luxuriating in a heat that they felt blissfully permeating their systems. I aterfamilias suddenly recollects that he used to be as brown as anv Arab eking out a precarious existence on the deserts of his forefathers, and swears that he will make up for his years of wasted sandbaths. He digs his toes in-—divine warmth!—he squirms his pale skinned body on to a brighter burning patch—rejuvenation, shine.'—-and goes on to a state of hypnotism with the new life drenchitig him from bald pate to ingrowing toenail; “Maria, my dear, this is bliss. There is a wondrous, soporific influence drawing him a willing victim out to some sunlit, palm-fringed isles, a <j r °wsy surge in the quiet atoll. Ihe frosted breakers come marching endlessly in with a receding dirge, whispering of hopeless lovers, and deeds of daring-do. Away over immeasurable distance there comes an echo of child merriment, and through the murmurous sea chant there filters a music like some strange tom-tom beating up the warriors to battle in unknown jungles. . . . Rapa dozes. Thus far a good fairy leads one. There is “ the cry of a l'ool in mock , distress,’’ and pater wakes with a 1 footprint on his ear. Fringed Pacific islands,’’ “ Turkish patrol,” music and dirges of ocean waves go sky high in one severe twitch of physical pain, and he sits up suddenly. The carnival is still on. AH round him tanning crowds lie in variegated costumes; Maria, his faithful wife, sleeps peacefully beside him “ And turn and toes your brown, delightful head. Amusedly, among the ancient dead.” By-and-by, thought having laboriiousiy translated itself into sluggish action, he clears the grit from his eyes and ears. My, but that’s a healthy sensation on his epidermis. Of course, the enviable tan which he had loved long since and a lost a while. And when the sun “ slopes his westering wheel ” he stretches himself with feline contentment and thinks of those unhappy and unhealthy restrictions—clothes. With simple ' savage philosophy he speculates on the distance civilisation has retrogressed that it has forsaken hygienic nudity for swathed physical effeminency. He puts on his shirt. He takes it off again, with fearful expedition. He stands like a terracotta cary- i atid, pondering daiKiy. Where is the swindler who invented sand bathing? A delicate carmine suffuses his erstwhile pale skin. The absorbed energy of the sunlit sand is giving off its energy, and hours of sitting bolt upright to prevent friction between skin and clothes lie ahead. Drawdown the curtain, and let him experiment with oils and washes in the gloomy night hours. Thy gleaming sands are pernicious, oh seaside! They call 3 011 ; they lull you with their snuggling warmth : and their countless ribs aud heat-filled hollows aro but the instruments of the torturer of the pale man. You sing to 3 r our echoing shore in the glinting sunshine—but your love song is a snare, your tranquil a delusion. You call on him, lowlj’. “ But. lie here awhile, and then go through the world with the rudely glow of the out-of-doors, and we will lure you to sweet sleep.”

And we do. and you do. ' G.N.