Even though the Sea Urchin were stationery, I hated them.
Once we docked the boat and headed to our beach (which was almost as small as the boat, but sandy), I carefully surveyed the water. Just a patch of seaweed a few feet out … I’d have to swim over it so as not to risk any chance of anything.
When I say swim, I mean it this time. Earlier, swimming meant more fa-la-la-la-la-look-at-me-I’m-in-the-water, a kick here, an arm movement there, a little treading water. In Hvar,
swimming meant actual strokes to move past that patch of seaweed. Granted, because the water is clear, I could see its brown green tangle for what it was. But, you never know. Lurking entangled in the plant could have been my Croatian nemesis, black spiky awfulness, just waiting to stick its needles into the soft arches of my naked feet.