Uncle Chester's World Beach Tour — ((better))

He spent four hours on his hands and knees, sorting colors. Red glass was “a rare blood type.” Blue was “for the melancholy.” He filled his watermelon cooler with so much sea glass that he couldn’t lift it. Gregory the seagull stole a bright green piece and flew off with it. Chester just waved.

“I’ve died and gone to a rosé commercial,” he said. uncle chester's world beach tour

Chester’s first rule: Always start with the weird one . Vik’s black sand isn’t sand so much as crushed lava that looks like someone ground up a dragon’s spine. The wind sounds like a disappointed god. Chester, wearing shorts (it was 4°C), squinted at the basalt columns. He spent four hours on his hands and knees, sorting colors

He spent three hours burying Gregory in the pink sand (the bird tolerated this). Then he built a mermaid out of coral and driftwood, gave it his hat, and proposed marriage to it. A small child filmed the entire thing. Chester’s final act here was to taste the sand. He confirmed it was not, in fact, strawberry-flavored. He was disappointed. Chester just waved

Let me tell you about Uncle Chester. He’s sixty-three, retired from selling industrial lubricants, and has the kind of enthusiasm for geography that makes you suspect he owns a globe just to spin it aggressively. Last spring, he announced his “World Beach Tour.” No tour buses. No five-star resorts. Just a faded Panama hat, a metal detector that hasn’t found anything but bottle caps since 2009, and a cooler shaped like a watermelon.

“See?” he whispered. “Every beach has a voice. This one’s a comedian.”