Sea Legs

By Vickie Wippel

          Marge had never been to a senior singles party. “Seventy-six years, and I’ve never even been on a boat!” she told everyone at the Catalina Express -- eyes wild in disbelief. The gate agent, the ticket taker. She ordered a drink with a large umbrella. “Tastes like sunset,” Marge marveled. She had 45-minutes to drink up- the boat ride from Long Beach to Catalina-- paradise!
          “I saw a flyer at Mah Jong last Thursday,” she told the bartender on the boat and another bartender later at the senior’s dance.
          The dance was on the beach. Not well-thought out, considering all the titanium hips and knees. Women dressed in Easter attire. The men wore what old men always wore-- khaki. Most sat in sturdy armchairs lining the sand. “I came to dance,” Marge told the women and the men. Marge danced as she said this, raising her hands into the sky as the sun melted into the Pacific. 
          Marge danced longer than anyone. She twirled with the men and held both hands to shimmy with the women. Beach Boys. Bobby Darin. The Drifters. “Where did they find such a great DJ?” Marge wanted to know. Marge caught the eye of a tall man with a cane and grey mustache; she recognized him from the boat.
          “That umbrella drink gave you some dancing legs.” He smiled.
          Marge smiled, lifted her skirt enough to show her ankles, riddled with bruises and veins, and said, “These old gals can dance! They just needed a night like tonight.” She had kicked off her orthopedic sandals long before. The sky turned that magic purple, just before dark, as he grabbed Marge’s hand and led her to the middle of the dance floor. His cane dragged a trail in the sand that someone tomorrow might confuse for animal tracks. Marge was so excited, she peed a little in her leak-proof panties. If they didn’t spin, she wouldn’t have to change her clothes. But oh how she wanted to spin!
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