I Went For A Quiet Beach Walk, But They Thought I Was Hunting For Sex
At least the crabs didn’t clamp onto my toes
“I can’t let you use the swimming pool at night, Ana,” the hotel manager told me, one evening. “It’s too risky, in case anything happens.”
He didn’t specify what he meant by “anything”. Rabies? Burst appendix? Locust invasion? But I gathered that swimming at the end of my shift, with no one around, was not on the cards.
During this ominous summer, I worked in Rimini, Italy, and the heat was getting to me. Sweat trickled down my back every second of the day. I only found relief when someone ordered a beer — it meant I could stick my head in the fridge while rummaging for a can.
I loved serving beer.
But not as much as I would’ve liked to jump into a cold pool — the one I was banned from, where the guests soaked themselves all day and possibly peed in.
If you ask me, they probably did.
I ran the bar in the lounge. It was the most enjoyable of all the menial jobs in the hotel. However, it came with a disadvantage: I finished later than anyone else. By the time I closed up, my colleagues were already in bed, exhausted, trying to get some sleep before the next day’s gruelling work.
And that went on for the next three months
I knew it would be hard. Seasonal work didn’t pay well for no reason. But I was getting antsy from the endless shifts and the lack of opportunities to wind down at the end of the day.
With the pool out of the picture, I had only one choice: the Adriatic Sea. Lucky me, its waves crashed against the shore just a two-minute walk from where I stayed.
So, here I was — with a plan. It wasn’t a fancy one, but it excited me nonetheless.
How about a night walk on the beach?
It was something I’d always wanted to try but never had the courage to do. In my sweatiest moments, I even toyed with the idea of a quick splash if I felt brave enough.
I was ecstatic.
“Don’t forget your key,” my roommate mumbled half-asleep as I set off.
As I stepped outside, the promenade was heaving with tourists. Loud music blasted from the speakers. People were drinking and laughing and the smell of fresh seafood lingered in the air.
It felt safe — even when I left the cacophony behind and made my way to the beach. So much so that I took my shoes off to feel the sand under my feet. It was a moment of peace — just me and the sea, and possibly a few crabs I was hoping not to tread on.
Until my phone rang.
“Ciao, Amore, I miss you,” Marco (my then-boyfriend) sang on the other end. I wished he could’ve called me later, but I didn’t say that to him. He was 150 km away. Instead, I made my way towards a paddleboat conveniently parked a few feet from me — maybe not quite parked, more like dumped.
It looked like a shipwreck accidentally washed up on the beach, then tossed behind Alberto’s restaurant. The place where the seafood smell came from.
I clambered onto it and took in the view, wondering if crabs liked making their homes in abandoned paddleboats. I still don’t know. But in my mind, paddleboats indeed looked like the perfect home for them.
Anyhow, I couldn’t see them. So I stopped picturing their bony legs clamping onto my toes. Also, Marco’s voice interrupted my train of thought.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“On the beach,” I replied. Before I could finish my sentence, he yelled, ”What? On the beach? Alone?”
I looked around and couldn’t see a soul, so I nodded. Somehow, it felt as though he wasn’t as keen on my grandiose plan as I was when I hatched it.
“You must go back to the promenade. Now!” he instructed me, half screaming, half panicking.
He was really starting to annoy me. Why did everyone want to tell me what I could and couldn’t do? And why the authoritarian tone?
“You don’t understand. Guys, who see a woman on the beach alone think she’s looking for sex.”
“And how do you know I’m not?” I chuckled, but he didn’t find it funny. Frankly, this new piece of information shook me a bit.
I tried to calm him down while drawing circles with my fingers on the sandy surface of the paddleboat. But my initial enthusiasm started to vanish, especially when I heard laughter in the distance. It was more like a drunken roar — a group of boys who, surprise, surprise (!) were walking in my direction. Five of them.
Marco must’ve sensed my unease because he suddenly asked me, “Is everything okay?”
Everything was not okay, but I couldn’t tell him that. That would’ve meant he was right in the first place. And hell if I allowed that to happen.
“Sure,” I lied, but I swiftly popped my sandals back on and headed toward the promenade.
The boys got closer and were undoubtedly walking towards me. But the real trouble was that, despite being drunk, they kept up with my pace. It was unnerving.
Ana, talk to me,” Marco fretted (so much for pretending). I didn’t care. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to smell the seafood. I wanted to be back at the promenade, safe, where people laughed and danced and weren’t scared of five guys following them like a pack of piranhas ready to strike.
“That’s it, I’m calling la polizia,” Marco said, on the verge of panic.
“To tell them what? Just stay on the line,” I said with confidence I didn’t feel and walked as fast as my legs would carry me, which wasn’t very fast at all because my feet kept sinking into the soft sand. It was like trying to run in water.
I quickly turned around to check the distance between them and me. I shouldn’t have. To my dismay, it had become smaller. They were now giving each other instructions I couldn’t quite hear.
What was that about? To catch me? To ask for a lighter? Or to find out what time it was?
I wasn’t going to ask. I was busy escaping unwanted sex or whatever they wanted from me, and adrenaline was thumping in my ears.
Shame or not, it was time to run. Logic said that, with seven stone of body weight and a phone as a weapon, I wouldn’t have stood a chance, if it came to a fight. In fact, fighting was out of the question — especially with five of them.
“Ana?” I heard Marco. The guy was a nervous wreck, and I kept stumbling over my own feet. The terrain felt like mush.
“T’fucking sand…” I heaved into the phone, not daring to turn around. I kept my gaze on the seafront. It was so close. Ironically, ‘Sex Bomb’ was blasting through the speakers. Tom Jones filled the air.
“Sex bomb, sex bomb, you’re my sex bomb
And baby, you can turn me on”
Come on, Tom Jones. You can’t be serious.
The only thing that needed to be turned on was the switch in my head that had been off up until now. That little fucker that didn’t stop me from going onto the beach alone.
“Andiamo, andiamo” (let’s go), one of the boys said. I’m not sure when they stopped chasing me, but it didn’t matter because people around me were laughing. The smell of seafood grew stronger. I was back to safety.
I was still gasping for air when Marco asked me, “Ana, are you okay?” I could barely hear him over the music.
“Yes,” I shouted, walking towards the hotel, happy to be jostled among the crowd of holidaymakers. Happy to have left the beach behind.
“Amore, what if they just needed a cigarette?” I joked, bursting into laughter.
But Marco wasn’t laughing with me.
And I realised that crabs aren’t the worst thing, after all.