We keep on extending our stay in Florianópolis.
“Maybe instead of checking out on Wednesday, we can check out on Thursday… or, fuck it, on Friday.”
“If we stay any longer, I’ll have to register Mark at the local school,” I joke.
I don’t mind another two days in Florianópolis. I love it here too. It’s just… comfortable. The hotel has everything we need—a bedroom with a door (Mark sleeps on the sofa bed), a microwave, a shower with good water pressure, a balcony and three towels (never take towels for granted!). “Floripa”—at this stage of my relationship with this city, I can use its nickname—is safe and laid-back. We still have beaches to explore, like Praia da Joaquim.
And so we extended our stay and promptly drove to Praia da Joaquim.
By “promptly,’ I mean we eventually left at 1 p.m., got stuck in one of these Ilha de Santa Catarina traffic jams for an hour and had to beg Mark to just hand over the fucking tablet and go to the beach when we finally found a parking spot.
Praia da Joaquim is at the far end of Praia do Campeche, so technically I saw it at the end of my walk a few days ago and I knew what to expect. It’s not one of the secluded paradises we discovered in the south of the island but the northern tip of a long white-sand beach with big waves.
What I didn’t know was how cold the water was and how strong the tide current was—forget about swimming unless you have a surfboard. Even the two lifeguards perched on a rock seemed fairly nervous every time someone was going into the water deeper than at waist level.
I walked on the beach for a while, turned around and walked back. Then I decided to climb the few massive rocks—the aptly named “Ponta da Pedra”—everyone was climbing at the edge of the beach. I made it halfway before accepting I wouldn’t stand proudly on the tallest rock. I don’t have the Brazilian rock climbing gene, this amazing ability to make your way up and down slippery rocks half-drunk in Havaianas flip-flops. Admitting defeat hurt because I thought I was prepared—I was clearheaded and barefoot, but maybe you do have to get blasted and rely on the made-in-Brazil Havaianas rubber grip for such beach activity, who knows.
So the stunning woman who looks like a model out of a photo shoot standing on the rock with her friends isn’t me—I was below, capturing this Brazilian moment. Dear stranger, I wish I had your butt and your agility.
After grabbing a snack for Mark, I went to climb the sand dunes instead.
I did reach the top, thank you for asking.