“Exfoliation!” he shouted. Tourists looked away.
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.
“Next year,” Chester said, “the volcano tours.”
By now, Chester had adopted a seagull he named “Gregory.” Gregory was missing a foot and had no loyalty. We landed at Harbour Island, where the sand is the color of a melted strawberry milkshake. Chester wept.
The sand squeaked under our feet like rubber ducks. Chester became obsessed. He started shuffling dramatically, composing what he called the “Squeak Symphony in B Major.” A lifeguard asked him to stop. Chester responded by building a sand sculpture of a kangaroo wearing sunglasses. It was, against all odds, excellent.