Ahhhh, the big blue sea.
Beware, dear reader. Within this idyllic tourist setting hides an ice-cold monster that will swallow your feet and steal your towel. This is the diary of an epic battle which took place between me and the dire entity known as the Camps Bay Beach. It is full of drama, terror and unnecessary war references. Manuscript follows.
2:00 PM: Battle preparations start. We decide to assault the beach in the afternoon, when it will be at its weakest.
2:30 PM: Our forces begin the march. In a friend's car.
2:55 PM: Arrival at the battleground. A full charge towards the sand dunes is immediately ordered.
3:00 PM: Our initial attack is repulsed quickly by raging sandstorms caused by an unholy amount of wind. We retreat to the grass with sore eyes and stinging legs. Curse you, Camps Bay!
3:05 PM: After regrouping on the grassy knoll, we decide to establish an assault post just next to the sand, via which we'll be making guerilla strikes into enemy territory.
3:25 PM: Camps Bay attempts to char-broil us with a heat ray. We apply the necessary protection and stay the assault. One point to us, Camps Bay!
3:35 PM: A tactical hit squad is sent directly to the ocean to determine the viability of a rear assault. Several good men freeze to death in the icy depths of knee-high water. Remaining forces are withdrawn.
3:40 PM: I attempt to do some reconnaissance. A few photos of enemy strongholds and attractive beach-goers are snapped before Camps Bay catches on to my plan and sends another sandstorm my way. I hide my camera for fear of damage and death.
Camps Bay has quite a few hotties. Pic unrelated.
3:45 PM: I volunteer for a second strike on the Camps Bay ocean. I proceed cautiously, but Camps Bay sends a colossal wave in my direction. I believe my life to now be forfeit, but my incredible fortitude helps me pull through and I'm able to escape, freezing and stumbling, back to home base.
4:00 PM: Camps Bay is clearly pissed off. The wind becomes even more powerful and several of our towels are stolen by a particularly forceful gust. Several more soldiers die in sandstorms while retrieving these critical supplies. We salute their bravery.
4:15 PM: I take a picture of someone's butt.
A butt.
4:20 PM: The wind has been raging for a good twenty minutes now. We considered ourselves safe on the grass, but are nonetheless continuously pelted with sand and the occasional ice cream vendor. The situation is looking grim. Commanding officers decide to hold ground and weather the storm.
4:30 PM: Morale breaks – a full retreat is ordered. Our broken and battered squad limps back to the car, scorned one last time by a rush of stinging sand from the beach. Damnation to you, Camps Bay. You may have won this battle, but we'll be back. And we'll be prepared.
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