Berbera Beach
"Berbera has the most beautiful beaches on the Gulf of Aden. When he visits the coastal town, the thick woman who runs his guesthouse offers a private tour. The beach is empty. Her batharoob—bathing dress—hides nothing when wet."
Berbera is heat and sand and ancient history.
The port city on Somaliland's coast, where merchants have traded for millennia. The beach stretches for miles—white sand, turquoise water, barely any tourists.
My guesthouse is run by Canab.
Forty-seven years old. A widow—her husband drowned fishing three years ago. She converted their family home into a guesthouse, serving the trickle of adventurous travelers who find their way here.
She's thick.
Two hundred and thirty pounds of coastal Somali woman. Dark from the sun. Wide hips that sway when she walks. Heavy breasts beneath her loose dress.
"Soo dhawow to Berbera," she says when I arrive. "You want to see the beach?"
"Tomorrow. I'm tired from the journey."
"Haa. Rest. I'll prepare dinner."
I rest.
But I dream of her.
The next morning, she offers a tour.
"The best beaches are hidden," she says. "The tourists don't know them. I'll show you."
We take her old truck, bouncing along dirt roads until we reach a cove that belongs on a postcard. White sand. Clear water. Absolutely no one else.
"This was my husband's spot," she says. "He used to fish here."
"Before he—"
"Haa." She stares at the water. "Before."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. It was Allah's will." She turns to me. "Do you swim?"
"Yes."
"Good." She reaches for her dress. "I do too."
Underneath, she wears a batharoob.
The traditional Somali bathing dress—loose and modest on land, but when wet, it clings to everything.
She wades into the water.
I follow.
The water is warm as blood.
She swims with practiced strokes—a coastal woman, born to the sea. I follow, watching her body move through the turquoise.
She stops in shoulder-deep water.
Turns to face me.
"My husband taught me to swim," she says. "In this very cove. Thirty years of marriage. And then one day, he didn't come back."
"That must have been—"
"Devastating." She floats closer. "But I survived. I always survive."
"You're strong."
"I'm tired of being strong." Her eyes meet mine. "Tired of being alone. Tired of running a guesthouse for strangers who come and go."
"What do you want?"
"To feel something besides grief." She touches my chest. "Even for one afternoon."
"Canab—"
"Aammus—be quiet." She kisses me.
I kiss the widow in the Gulf of Aden.
Her wet batharoob presses against me—soaked fabric that hides nothing. I feel her body through it. Heavy breasts. Soft belly. The heat of her despite the water.
"Take me to the beach," she gasps. "I need to feel you."
I carry her through the shallows.
On the white sand, she peels off the wet batharoob.
Her body glistens with seawater. Brown skin. Heavy breasts with dark nipples. Soft belly. Wide hips.
"Three years," she says. "Three years of sleeping alone, listening to the ocean, remembering."
"Forget the past."
"Make me."
I push her onto the warm sand.
I worship her on Berbera beach.
My mouth traces her salt-kissed skin—every curve warmed by the African sun.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her thighs. "Since my husband—"
I bury my face between her thighs.
She screams.
The sound carries over the empty water.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Three years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. She tastes like salt and sun.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—on this beach—where he proposed—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
The Gulf of Aden witnesses everything.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the guesthouse owner.
On Berbera beach. On the sand where her husband proposed. Her massive body moves beneath me as the waves lap nearby.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me something new to remember—"
I pound her.
Sand scatters. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood Canab.
Fill her where three years of grief lived. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled on the warm sand, the tide creeping closer.
"Macaan," she breathes. "This beach will never be the same."
"New memories."
"Haa." She pulls me close. "How long do you stay?"
"A week."
"Then we have six more days." She kisses me. "And this beach is very long."
Six Days Later
I leave Berbera with sand in places I didn't know existed.
Canab stands on her porch, waving.
"Come back," she calls. "Soo noqo."
I will.
The beaches of Berbera are unforgettable.
So is she.