Shane was from Ireland. He had a great big beard and drank beer the way the Irish are reputed to. He stood in the sun and stretched his arms out. He was a young man on a beach in Brazil, enjoying the regression of his hangover, the warmth of the sun, and the memory of the dark-skinned Brazilian girl he’d slept with the night before.
“I think I need to change my methods,” my friend Anthony said, sitting next to me on the sand. “Whatever it is I’m doing with women, it just isn’t working.” He and I had not been nearly as successful as Shane had been. We’d spent the last two nights in Lapa and Copacabana hopelessly trying to meet girls, and had succeeded only in getting drunk and talking to each other.
Maybe the contrast in achievement made us listen to Shane. “You can’t talk to them,” he said in his thick Irish accent. “You guys talk too much. You got to just grab them and start kissing them. Or dance with the girl for a minute or two. Then start kissing them.”
Shane stood up, his skin white and unfazed by the Rio sun he’d spent the last month in. He was a man entirely content with his world. He sprinted away into the ocean and leapt into the tall white crest of an oncoming wave.
“Perhaps he’s right,” Anthony said, and we both nodded.