We read the story from the island and talk about the majestic place. The story is below.

The sand is the whitest in Cayo Largo. It is coral ground by the relentless swell of the Caribbean Sea. The swell crushes against the reefs, breaks the dead bits, and abrades them against the older sand in a slow motion of years. It uses the sand to make more of it.

The reefs run for a hundred miles along this South Cuban archipelago. Its entire length. They form quiet lagoons and protect them from the anger of an open sea. The sand is soft and warm, but hard on the eyes with the albedo of snow. Sunglasses help.

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We walk along the beach, Alex and I. The dog runs. He dashes between the bushes and little palms where the lizards hide, sniffs there, wags his erect tail, then dashes back into the clear azure sea to cool off from the heat. He is relentless.

Tourists walk by. Not many but a steady trickle, every minute or so. A group of Europeans speaking French. A young couple bantering in Portuguese. An older couple, nudists, the woman is wearing panties and no bra, and the man wearing nothing at all. He has the biggest hairy bush, trimmed in a perfect cube, and the longest, and possibly, the oldest penis I have ever seen. Flaccid and tired.

‘How is the island?’ Amaury asks on WhatsApp. ‘I hear it is the most beautiful place.’

‘Yeah,’ I type back, ‘have you never been?’

‘Cubans are not allowed there. It is for tourists. For generating convertible cash.’

Foreigners only on Cayo Largo beach. Cuban’s trim palms, lay palm fronds on a roof over a stage, sweep, running a bar and a store. They are the workers, the cogs of communist machinery perpetuating tourism and showcasing the communist paradise. This beautiful piece of Cuba is off-limits to Cubans. Fucked up, isn’t it?

The next day I run along the beach and think about the injustice. I am part of it in a way.

But, is it not the same in most places of beauty? Here, the locals work for the tourists on government orders. Elsewhere, the dictates of economy enforce an implicit divide. Around the all-inclusive resorts of the Caribbean, the tourists spill out of the airplanes, pack the gated walls of a contrived paradise, party, spill their drinks, and spill their stories to each other, without noticing that the only locals around are the ones changing their bedsheets. It is the same around the world.

I run another mile then slow. The sun is higher now, and hot. I fight the urge to check what is around another corner. I still have to run back. I whistle to the dog. He turns, sees me stop, and dashes for the bushes. I let him.

This part of the beach is empty. I am the only one. I take off my clothes and wade naked into the sea. This is after all a nudist beach, but I am uncomfortable without the small patch of my running shorts. Why is it so hard to shed the puritan dogma? Even in places where it is suspended.

I float in two feet of water. My knees scrape the waves of sand on the bottom. The dog rushes into the bay and shatters the mirror surface of the turquoise water. He comes over to check in, then wades among the starfish. They taunt him with their bright color and complete indifference. He is fascinated by these creatures in plain view, a foot away, but out of reach.

Soon we are both cool. I put on the shorts, and we run the miles back to Alex. I round a tiny inlet and jump away from the water. A small salt-water crocodile glares at me. I catch him on a video scurrying away and settling on the sandy bottom a few feet away. A youngster - only five feet long, most of him are tail and teeth.

“Hey, look,” I show the video to Alex when we are back. She shivers. “That’s the only local on this beach,” I say, “and I still ran him off his spot.”

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