MR. SANDMAN
Remembering the pure joy and painful heartache of young love one long-ago summer
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Penny emigrated with her family from South Africa in 1974. Letters back home of her new experiences led to a passion for writing. She honed her skills, enrolling at Mcmaster University as a mature student, obtaining a B.A. As a freelance writer, she’s had more than 100 articles published in newspapers and magazines. Retired and living in Burlington, Ont., Penny has a busy life with her husband, four children, their spouses, eight grandchildren and twin great-grandsons.
The line from the current ’50s hit tune, “Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream…” blaring forth from the radio embodied my mood of dreamy anticipation: “Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen…” On the precipice of puberty, my 14-year-old head reeled at the prospect of meeting bronzed boys strutting their stuff in the surf.
When my parents and grandmother were offered the use of an apartment for two weeks through an old friend of my grandmother’s in Durban, the popular Mecca on South Africa’s Natal south coast, it was like a gift from the gods.
A couple of weeks later, I gazed blissfully at the blue Indian Ocean stretched before me; the white sands littered with multi-coloured beach umbrellas and among the throngs of people, numerous teenage boys boasting sun-tanned bodies.
Like a sacrifice to the sun, I exposed my torso to its hot rays, tasted the salt on my lips, and squinted coyly to check out the talent around me. The backdrop of waves swelling, cresting and crashing down had a mesmerizing effect on me. I joined the other bathers frolicking in the froth, until my bathing suit, saturated in salty-sea water and sand, forced me back onto the beach.
Drying off, I listened to the distant strains of “Mr. Sandman” coming from further down the beach. Another diversion was the entertainment provided for holiday-makers on a makeshift platform where beauty pageants, and variety and talent shows were staged daily. Lured by the strains of “Mr. Sandman,” I drifted over to watch the concert in progress. I avoided the hired canvas deck chairs and plopped myself on the sand in front of the stage to watch. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. A tanned youth, his hair bleached blond from the sun, leaned over me. A pair of sky-blue eyes smiled enticingly.
“Have a seat,” he said, offering me the empty deck chair next to him with an exaggerated wave of his hand.
“I didn’t pay for a chair,” I stammered. “That’s okay,” he assured me, “I will.” Shyly, I joined him, feeling suddenly elated by the unexpected attention. He had an easy, friendly manner about him, and I was soon making his acquaintance.
“Would you like an ice-cream cone?” he inquired.
Again, I was caught off-guard. These little treats and pleasantries were rather flattering.
We were soon arranging to meet at this spot the following day, and it became a regular rendezvous. We watched the shows together, splashed in the sea or walked along the beach hand in hand. I made certain we headed in the opposite direction from the spot where my parents and grandmother were sitting. Each time he took my hand, my heart went all aflutter. I swelled with glowing sensations, which boosted my self-esteem.
“Why don’t you come back with me to my hotel and meet my parents,” he suggested one day. I found this a little daunting but finally agreed. He was staying in one of the grand hotels along the beachfront. I was awed by the opulence in comparison to our humble abode. My grandmother’s friend’s apartment, in a somewhat seedy-looking building, was tiny, stuffed with furniture and had a communal bathroom down the passage
“Hello, my dear,” said his father. His mother smiled warmly but I had the impression his parents were rather amused. I did not intend to reciprocate by taking my newfound beau to visit our holiday home.
Meeting my fellow became the highlight of my day. As the lyrics of the tune of the day rang out:
“Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream, make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen.”
I was in love. The attention and flattery showered upon me so suavely sent me soaring to new heights. Before long, I began to see myself through new eyes, as a slim, attractive and alluring figure floating over the sand with an aura of grace and beauty like Aphrodite, goddess of love, meeting with her adored Adonis. I made these analogies, as I was the recipient of many stories on Greek Mythology as a result of my parents belonging to a book club. Sadly, however, holidays end and the time came to bid farewell. We exchanged addresses and promises to write.
The following morning, my parents announced unexpectedly that there was time for a quick, final swim before we left. Overjoyed at the prospect of seeing my admirer once more, I dashed across the hot sand to our usual meeting place. I spotted him and was about to call out a greeting when I noticed he was carrying two ice-cream cones. I watched him approach a pretty blond girl, hand her the ice cream, and lead her to the deck chairs in front of the stage. Stunned, I withdrew behind a stall, dreading being seen. I felt humiliated and rejected. I ran back along the shoreline, a skinny and freckled 14-year-old once more, blinking back the tears. Rather than magic dust, Mr. Sandman had cast sand into my eyes. I didn’t see the blue bottle wash up in the frothy foam. My foot popped the transparent bubble, and in a flash, a long, thin tentacle retaliated with a piercing venomous sting. Bystanders came to my aid, as I yelped frantically. Someone ran to the garden above the beach and returned with a piece of aloe to dab on the puncture. Gradually, it began to salve the wound. The pain slowly ebbed away like the receding tide. My heartache took a while longer.