walk_ins | [Santo - The Beach]

[Santo - The Beach]

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You have to walk down a ramp to get to the sand. The ramp stretches over sand dunes, with sea oats dotting them, blowing in the near-constant breeze. On the same level as the ramp: a boardwalk, dotted with places to get sketchy-looking fried food, to try your luck at a number of games of chance, to watch performers, to ride roller coasters of the future!!!!

When you walk down the ramp, it's all white sand and blue water. Down about half a mile is a pier that juts out several hundred feet.

It's a nice beach. Not too crowded.

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Stitch who has been doing his absolute best to remain incospicous during this transaction can stand it no longer. He begins to make grabby hands at one of the skewers.

"Wait," River says sternly. "Insufficient caramelization."

Mommy, a little boy whispers, that dog has hands!

His mother nods tolerantly without looking over.

He heaves a put upon sigh and drops back down to all fours yet again. The observant child is treated to a wide, toothy grin.

The child stares.

And then starts to giggle.

The shopkeeper, having mercifully missed this interlude while he was turning the ice cream skewers, fishes them out of the oil now and sets them to drain for a minute.

"Here y'go, fū rén."

River accepts both skewers happily.

Awhile later the pair are seated away from the noise of the boardwalk on an (for the moment) otherwise vacant strand of beach.

Stitch receives his skewer happily and makes short, sloppy work of the first mouth sized blob. Very short work. Ow.

River is nibbling delicately. This way she doesn't burn her mouth!

She does get ice cream dripping down her chin, though. Oops.

She doesn't seem too concerned.

After a few moments Stitch cheerfully points at her chin and snickers. He does not appear aware of the hypocrisy, given that he's wearing quite a bit of ice cream himself.

River blinks at him.

Wait for it.

Waaaaiiiit for it.

Oh, there's the comprehension. She scrubs at her chin with the back of a hand, getting some off and smearing the rest around, and giggles. "You're a hypocrite."

It takes him a second as well. A claw manages to hook some off the side of his own chin. It's brought up to one large eye fro close scrutiny.

...

He shrugs. And clears the majority of it off his lower jaw with a long sloppy sweep of his tongue. The ice cream on his finger is consumed shortly thereafter.

...And now River's just plain giggling.

At the dignity of that, of course.

Stitch is far to engrossed with consuming another blob of ice cream to respond. He's slighlty more careful this time around, but there is still much crunching and gnashing of teeth. He grins in contentment, twin streams of chocolate slithering down the corners of his mouth.

River really should eat her ice cream before it melts more than the frying already made it.

Stitch is being deeply diverting, though!

Stitch never has been one fro caution. Or patience. He hurriedly blows on the two reamining blobs of ice creambefore sliding them off the skewer. The end of said skewwr having been angled direcly above his cavernous maw.

There may be mild unplesantness due to the heat. There may be brain freeze due to the cold. There is very little reaction to either. It's so worth it.

"You're very efficient."

--Oh hey she has ice cream still! How about that.

River eyes her skewer dubiously, and then attempts to eat an ice cream blob in one bite. She gets about two-thirds of it; the rest falls, and spatters into the palm of her hastily raised hand.

His grin widens at her comment. The companionable silence is intersperced by small inquisitive noises as he carefully searches out and and devours all remnants of batter from his own skewer. Which is then used to pick his teeth.

River takes her time, savoring each increasingly messy ice cream ball happily.

She does manage to restrict the ice cream smears to her chin and hands, at least.

Surprisingly, Stitch does not eat the skewer itself. Instead, it is spun on a four fingered hand and subsequently used to doodle a few simple images (and scrawl a rather rude phrase in an alien alphabet) in the sand.

"Mĕilì." River has no idea what it means, mind you, which is probably for the best.

She uncoils, planting the skewer upright in the sand near Stitch's drawing, and takes a few steps towards the sea.

"Emba-chua." It certainly is!

He keeps pace easily enough, though when it becomes apparent where they're headed, he can't help but grimace slightly.

River's back is to him, so she doesn't notice. Probably.

She just wades ankle-deep in the surf -- her boots were abandoned by the boardwalk some time ago, to be retrieved eventually -- and bends over to rinse her hands.

Stitch sits down, eyeing the incomming tide from a safe distance. He can see the waves just fine from here!

"Nice set."

River twists just enough to blink at him around her own knees.

Her hair falls around her cheeks, the tips skimming the very top of each wave.

Stitch blinks at her in return before indicating the surf with a quick head jerk. Not the best conditions he's ever seen but definately worth taking advantage of. How strange that there don't appear to be any surfers present at all.

There are a few force-boarders, far out, but that's more like a cross between jetskiing and windsurfing than real surfing. No one's taking advantage of the curling waves, it's true.

(That's because there's another beach, a few miles down, which was specifically designed for big waves. It's invariably crowded on any nice afternoon, and there are some surfers around even on the grey drizzly days.)

"It's the sea," River says, in response to his head jerk. "You can hear it."

"Ih." She gets a headtilt. However whatever puzzlement she may have enduced is quickly replaced with curiosity at an unexpected sight further down the beach.

"Aka tiki baba!"

And he's off again. What is that?

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river_meimei - 2008-05-16 03:29 (UTC) - Expand

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