I am nine years old and I am dressed in red Spiderman boxers. With my plastic golf clubs on my back, I walk down the crumbling front steps of “Wilton,” my Bermuda house. Each limestone step like a slab of feta cheese threatens to crumble under pressure. Entering the crabgrass garden, I soak in the powerful 11 am sun. The grass is soft like a sponge. With every stride, my feet push it down and it springs back up like a temperpedic mattress. It seems as though I could jump off a tree onto this grass, and it would cushion me like a pillow.
         I set my golf clubs down and make my plan. The tee box will be where the front yard meets the house steps and the hole will be the trunk of the palm tree. It’s a slight dogleg left, with a pink hibiscus bush hazard looming on the right side of the fairway. Which club do I hit? Driver, 7 iron or putter. I choose the faded blue plastic driver—I’ve been shanking the 7-iron lately. I tee up a plastic golf ball and swing. Whack! Darn, it’s a slice, right into the hibiscus bush.
         The bush is dense. I peel back branches, trying to find my ball while making sure not the hurt the pink hibiscus flowers that each stem so beautifully erects. The beginning of each pedal is dark pink while the tips of each pedal are light pink. In the middle, the two colors meet, and together they create the purest pink I have ever seen. I try to find the point at which one color stops, and the other begins, but it is a fruitless task. Nature’s perfection cannot be measured.
         There it is! I find the white golf ball lodged between two low branches and yank it out using my seven-iron. Once I have the ball, however, I don’t want to play anymore. I would rather look at the colors around me, soak in the sun, and marvel at plants. I leave my golf clubs at the side of the hibiscus bush and start to explore my yard.
         The palm tree at the front of my yard has a curved bow trunk that juts out to the right diagonally from the ground and then curves back at the top. I walk onto the trunk, its stringy sandpaper bark brushing my feet. Then I hug the tree with my arms and legs and spin around so that I am hanging from the tree with my back hovering above the ground like a monkey. I release my feet and return to the garden.
         The little wooden gate at the front of my yard looks delicate. Its royal blue paint is chipping and its hinges are rusted. It doesn’t take much time for the humid Bermuda climate to erode what is man made. With a push, the gate squeaks open and I step onto the light grey asphalt road that runs past my house. The street holds the heat of the summer sun and burns my feet. I dance on my tiptoes and hustle onto parts of the road that are shaded by foliage. Turning left, I walk down the left side of the decaying street. Pastel colored limestone walls line the road, separating public from private. To my right, a cumquat tree droops. After looking both ways, I eagerly skip to the other side of the road.
         Little orange ovals dangle from the majestic tree. The ones that have already fallen lie cooked and deflated on the hot asphalt. I climb onto a green stonewall, reach up and pick a handful of ripe cumquats. Continuing along the road, I snack on the delectable fruit, filling my mouth with sweet summer nectar.
After a minute, I take a right on Paget road. Salty air meets my nose and sticks to my skin. Sand fills the crevasses in the crumbling tarmac road. I feel more sand crunch between my feet and the street until the street is gone and I am on the sandy beach. I look down and watch pink sand squish between my toes and then fall back down. I turn to my right and start to climb a large sand dune that looks over the bay. On the steep dune, green weeds stick through the sand and dance in the ocean breeze. From the top of the dune, I can see the bay that makes a horseshoe and faces the sea. I feel powerful looking down at the tiny people that look like figurines.
         Returning to the beach, I start walking close to the dunes where the sand is deep and dry. After a while, my legs fatigue and I decide to go closer to the water where the sand is wet. With each step, I make a footprint on the supple sand. I try to make my steps the same distance apart, then I try to step only on the balls of my feet, leaving a mysterious set of tracks behind.
         As I move closer to the water, the sand becomes harder. Incoming waves erase the faint tracks that I lay. Waves wash over the sand, so that it is perfect, so that there is no trace of me, so that there is no trace of anyone. After a while, I step shin-deep into the water and feel the refreshing water tingle my legs. As I stand there, my feet start to sink into the soft sand below and the small waves slap my legs. Overcome with serenity, I fall back into the shallow water, landing on my backside. As the refreshing seawater cools me, I lean on my elbows, close my eyes, and absorb the warmth of Bermuda’s summer sun.