The weather on the Gold Coast is a mystery.
If I look out to the ocean in the mid-morning, the sky is clear.
Turning around the horizon is crowded with ominous thunderheads aglow with lightning. This isn’t anything like Pattaya at the end of the hot season. This is Palm Beach. I quickly cross South County Road and weaved through the leafy trees two streets south of Donald Trump’s estate.
No one is on the beach. It’s low season. The number of millionaire residents has dropped to a mere 1Oth of winter inhabitants. 1000 rich people. I know five. Seven counting their kids. None of them go the beach, so I have the most exclusive beach in North America to myself.
I strip off my shirt and walk to the sea edge. The seaweed from the high tide is tangled with plastic refuse. I spent a few minutes cleaning up the mess. Without my glasses the beach looks clean. It’s low tide and I waded into the sea without trepidation. Sharks are interested in non-surfers. Sea lice only hangs around seaweed. No jet skies buzz the shoreline. I dive into the water and come up sputtering. Thunder rumbles from the West. The clouds are moving in fast. I go back to shore, because I’ve read more than once that more people die of lightning in the USA than shark attacks.
I return to the mansion.
The dog is waiting. It’s an Airedale named Pom Pom. The owner saved it from a shelter. Pom Pom is more than a little crazy. The thunder has it shivering in fear. I grab its tail. Somehow this calms down Pom Pom.
The rain ends the perfect day.
It’s time for a glass of wine.
All of this sounds fairly boring.
That’s lifestyles of the destitute during low season for the rich.
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