Delray and Boca

They waddled out onto the sand, cigarillos in hand. The man was tall and fat. The women were short and fat. In their fifties. The redhead, the brave one, kicked off her shoes and went into the sea up to her ankles.

“The water's hawt, my Gawd!” she said.

“Is it,” said the brunette.

“Yeah!” The redhead laughed.

“Hey!” said the man. He took a puff. “Hey, whyn't you swim to Paris!”

They laughed again. Even the brunette.

I like when people laugh. But I ignored them and stared out to sea. Storms were passing by, and the sun was setting behind us, and the sky was painted with more shades of blue and green, violet and yellow, than I could ever have imagined. The sea was thirty different shades of iron gray blue, and a couple boats rode the horizon.

I turned and walked back to the 1A. A family came down the path through the plantlife that lines the highway. A chubby kid and his big sister and mom and dad, swimsuits, towels, an inflated floaty thing. Thongs slapped on their feet.

“Beach,” said the dad. “There it is.”

Their duckling line continued on down to the water. I went back to my car. I’d had the entire coast all to myself when I got there, for all of half a minute. No one else, just a line of empty beach chairs in perfect rows. A nice fresh beach for a family just off the plane from, what, Pennsylvania or somewhere, for their week’s Florida vacation. Awesome.

The sky was unbelievable. More variation, more color, more structure than I will see in a hundred California sunsets. The houses along the 1A, Ocean Blvd, were unbelievable too. Delray Beach, Highland Beach, Boca Raton. They got money, my Gawd! I always wonder: What did these people do to get so rich? Why the hell didn’t I do that too? But I was too lazy to start a record company or a luxury boat dealership or become a professional jazz-rock fusion musician who jams with Herbie Hancock as my plans in tenth grade had me doing. So someone else lives in those incredible houses. They are welcome.

You can picture them: Pink and orange stucco, Italian villa designs, immaculately landscaped despite the storms, palm trees, indirect outdoor lighting, tall windows, vaulted ceilings, a Bentley in the car park. Brilliant parties under the chandeliers, the rich and their hangers on, mostly the hangers on, rich kids visiting their richer friends so they can impress the panties off the college girl of the week. A good life, I’m glad someone’s living it. Seriously. I have nothing against the rich. I’m not jealous, I’m not angry, I’m not a socialist. They earned it, they can enjoy it. That they maybe earned it on the efforts of people living on a hundredth their income is not a problem. Success in this world isn’t about how much you sweat. It’s about how well you organize other people.

Until you break the law. At six this morning I was sailing down the channel towards Lake Boca and the sea. Five- and ten-million dollar homes lined the way, many of them with million-dollar boats tied up. One of them was pointed out to me.

“You remember that Tyco thing, that guy …?”

I nodded, even though I didn’t really. I knew about Tyco, big manufacturer, we buy stuff from them all the time. Vaguely remembered some hanky-panky or other.

“CFO used to live right there,” said my host, pointing at a very nice one-story house on the corner of one of the smaller inlets. “He’s in jail now.”

“Good,” I said. I’m a man of few words. It’s how I keep my reputation.

“His wife just sold,” he said.

Apropos of nothing, really. I hope she knows how to have fun with her (ex?) husband’s money while he’s cooling his heels. Bastard. Getting rich is fine. Getting rich while ripping people off is not.

“You know,” he said.

Doesn’t take much to warm some people up.

“I really love this country. Look at this. All these houses. There’s some serious money here.”

“Yeah.”

“The great thing about this country,” he said, “is it doesn’t matter who you are. There are no barriers. You can get rich, it’s all up to you. I don’t care if you’re white, black, immigrant,” he said, waving his hands around. “It’s all out there. You just gotta take it.”

“Yeah. It’s amazing. You gotta work pretty damn hard, though.”

“Well, you’ll never get rich working for someone else. Like us. Not a chance. Gotta start your own business.”

“And most of them fail.”

“Yep. Greater risk, greater reward. Yup,” he nodded looking around.

“You know what pisses me off,” he continued. “People who complain about living in the U.S.A. I mean, we had this guy at my last company. He was French. Hated the U.S. Always badmouthing, complaining, this, that. You know.”

“Yeah.”

“We asked him, so, if it’s so bad here, why don’t you go back home? You know what he said?”

“What?”

“’Oh, I could never get a job there!’ Believe that? We just la-a-aughed!”

“Jeez.”

“Can’t even get a job in France, so he gets one here and complains.”

“All the way to the bank.”

“You got it. We never let him hear the end of it.”

He laughed. I laughed. I love Cuban-Americans. They really get it. Maybe a little too much sometimes. I think the embargo is stupid. But I didn’t feel the need to argue about that this morning.

We floated on the ocean a few hours, fishing but not catching. It was as calm as a lake. A really big lake, but still. Nothing like the inaptly named Pacific.

It was later that I went up to Delray, alone, to try a restaurant he recommended. The sky grabbed my attention, and NPR was presenting "Turandot". Against such real beauty, the big houses took on a tawdry shade. I was melancholy as I ate a grilled mahi-mahi sandwich. It was great, but expensive. My boss will approve the expense. But if I'd come out with my family for a week's Florida vacation, there'd be no expense account and damn few restaurants. We'd be loading up at the grocery store for most meals. I was too lazy to become a great musician or start that record company, and I accept that. But still.