T A B L E_T A L K NEEDTable Talk R E C E N T L Y Under the spell of Angkor Wat By Jeff Greenwald The monstrous and the magical in Cambodia (03/03/98) Where the hula goddess lives By James D. Houston A sensual, sacred site in Hawaii (03/02/98) Cajun Mardi Gras By Margaret Spillane and Bruce Shapiro Singing, dancing, drinking and other mayhem in rural Louisiana (02/27/98) Looking for Kathmandu By Jeff Greenwald Gossip, chickens and sex in Nepal (02/26/98) Landing the Big One By D.T. Max Fishing and frolicking in Cabo San Lucas (02/25/98) Browse the Feature archives		__ LUST IN THE SAND _|_ page 2 of 2 "She's a beautiful woman, Marco," I said, stating the obvious. Perhaps he hadn't noticed. "Yes, she is. It's been interesting traveling with her. She is very intense and demanding. I would not want to be her lover." "You're not her boyfriend?" I asked, incredulous, and failing to disguise my delight. "No, not really. We're good friends, and we sleep together sometimes, but she's not really my type. She insists on total freedom to do what she wants. Sometimes that's very hard." He glanced at me as he spoke, but otherwise fixed his gaze on Claudia as she romped toward us, sea water streaming. I didn't quite believe him. I thought Marco was perhaps in love with an unpossessable woman. Not his type? She could charm the pants off the pope. Although Marco didn't show it, she must be torturing him by frolicking through Latin America with whichever strangers she fancied. And how easy it is in this setting to follow the whims of desire. Mere hours ago, Claudia was an alluring stranger in a cafe; now we were intimate acquaintances, our inhibitions crumpled in a heap on the sand. What was she thinking? Without words, I was left with the language of looks, posture, attitude. I couldn't tell; I looked for a sign. Perhaps Erik and Marco would decide to do something together, like take a hike. But then what? Perhaps I could impersonate a lobster. With more sun on my unprotected hide, that would soon be plausible. The sound of boats crashing through the surf caught our attention. The sailors expertly negotiated the waves and slid their crafts onto the sand, jumping out to pull lines and drag them out of the water. The men were almost black with sun. They wore nothing but swim trunks. We pulled on our shorts, Claudia applied her sarong, and the four of us ambled over to watch them. Their gear was basic: long, open boats with high prows to bash the waves, large outboard motors, swim fins and masks and a few knives. The bottom of the boats were thick with tuna, halibut, lobsters and crabs. In our halting Spanish, we asked them simple questions. Yes, they fish for a living. Yes, they go out every day, just beyond the reef. No, they don't work for a large company, they sell directly to the local establishments. Such as Don Armando, yes. "I'll have the tuna," Erik advised the fisherman. "I want lobster," I said, "but I bet Claudia wants the biggest one." Marco translated for her and she agreed, laughing. The scene pulsed with the eternal rhythms of men and the sea, reaping the timeless harvest with bare hands under a hard blue sky. Then, one brawny fisherman produced a cell phone and made a quick call. Almost at once a late model Jeep Cherokee appeared on the beach. The men loaded everything into it except the boats, which were simply left on the sand, and drove off, stereo blasting ... timelessly up-to-date. We headed back to the restaurant. Dinner was a swirling blur of butter sauce, beer and hormones. I meant to indulge cautiously, mindful of the perils of turista, but I forgot. We dined, we clowned, we carried on. I charmed, I conjured, I mimed. I teased Claudia into teaching us colorful Italian expressions for bodily functions, and she applied herself with glee. But as the evening wound down, I knew she would spend the night in Marco's hammock, or perhaps her own, but not in mine. I fought the disappointment, but it fought back, tormenting me all night. In the morning Marco dashed any further hope. "We've decided to head up the coast," he said. "We have to get to Miami for our flight home." We sent them off, embracing as if we were old friends, and for a fleeting moment I captured her in my arms. Claudia was every bit as huggable as I hoped, but it was only as good as good-bye. Marco shook hands a final time, pressing a folded paper into my hand. My heart rate doubled. Instead of a love note from Claudia, it was Marco's address in Rome. "Look me up sometime," he said. I watched them hike toward the highway. They'd have no trouble getting a ride. Erik and I were back on our own, aware that we'd willingly discarded our quest for deep meaning in favor of 110 pounds of unbridled woman, prancing before us, then vanishing untouched. Did this mean we were just a pair of dopes with sperm for brains, like the tourist types we sought to avoid? "You were the one that tried to will her into your hammock," Erik pointed out. "True, but you didn't seem to mind when she Coppertoned your back." "That was exceedingly pleasant," he admitted. With very little discussion, we agreed: Claudia was more than a babe. She was closer to a wild animal, and any self-respecting explorer would gladly lurk in the bushes to study her mating habits. The only real question was how to continue without her blood-stirring animal nature. We chose the next best thing: lunch. I ordered another plate of Don Armando's lobster -- hot, succulent, wet with butter and helpless in the path of my desire. SALON | March 4, 1998 Tim Barrett is a writer who lives in Northern California. Have you ever met someone jaw-dropping on the road? Share your memories in Table Talk.