Happy Bay is what a beach should be:
the sea grapes shade a flat of sifted sand,
an azure sky blends with a turquoise sea.
The younger tourists, muscular and tanned,
ride jet skis past the pier by Hunter’s Quay,
play bocce, volleyball, walk hand-in-hand,
discussing majors, marriages, careers,
and where they’ll be in ten or twenty years.
But older visitors now at the age
by which they either had or missed the fun,
spread out like extra props across the stage,
or plump sea lions, listless in the sun,
staring blankly at the ocean or a page,
talking of where we’ve been or what we’ve done.
We rise for cocktails, dinner specials; …