Microbrewed Adventures - Charles Papazian [95]
These were their first glorious minutes of ocean “baptism.” I recalled my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean, my first mountain climbed and several other special firsts of my life. I continued to watch as they scooped water into their mouths, tasting the salt of the sea for the first time in their lives. Others were busy gathering gallons of ocean and sand into containers. I grinned to myself and was warmed inside as I imagined this little bit of sea taken back to relatives perhaps 500 miles inland, to marvel at the taste of the Atlantic ocean. I’ve seen oceans a thousand mornings of my life, but this is a sight that is still a marvel even to me, the Atlantic stretching out to the western horizon. The people danced in the glimmer of the setting sun, unable to judge how far the crashing waves thrust their tongues onto the sand. Soaked in their business suits, they laughed, and to be sure loved every minute of the experience.
I asked, “Where are you from?”
“From Botswana. This is the first time we’ve ever seen the ocean.”
You know there are special moments in everyone’s lives. This was one for me. I don’t quite know why, but I was overcome with a deep emotion, simply watching these children of our planet taking in the great gray-blue sea crashing wildly on this distant coast. I was there. For the moment it seemed I knew that I would be there forever in my mind, watching these 30 people, silhouetted by the setting sun in their suits and dresses as the children we will always be.
After dinner, I walked halfway down the beach, then broke into a light jog as I headed back into town. It was very cool; the ocean dampness was still invigorating and fresh. I glanced up in awe, knowing that just beyond my sight were sand dunes and one of the driest deserts in the world.
But deserts are for exploring, and that would be tomorrow. That night I was in search of one last beer before retiring. The town looked dreadfully quiet. One last beer? In the desert? That evening I had little faith in fate as I dwelled on sarcastic thoughts.
The streets were empty, deserted, dead. I methodically crisscrossed the small grid of city center streets. I was about to give up when, at the last moment, I found the warm glow of incandescent lights. As I approached the artificial twilight, my heart jumped. I had arrived at the doorsteps of “the Last Western Pub.” I walked in. There were a few people still there.
My thirst overcame any small talk I may have had in reserve. “Is the draft Tafel or Windhoek Lager?” I asked. “It’s all the same and brewed right here in Swakapmund,” answered the owner in a German-accented English. I knew the brewery was three blocks down the street and that it brewed all the country’s draft beer, but didn’t quite believe it was all the same. So I argued. “Are you sure about that?” “Come around the bar and see for yourself,” he said. So I strolled past a young lady and mentioned in an overconfident four-Windhoek state, “He doesn’t know that beer is my business and I’m working late.”
But I was wrong. He proved his point. And one thing led to another, and I’ll be damned!! He nonchalantly added to the conversation, “Well, we have a microbrewery just around the corner. We’re Namibia’s first and Swakapmund’s first. Maybe you can help us…”
How do I find these places? This country is small but not that small. There are great distances between places and people. The previous day I was encountering black rhinos, giraffes, zebras, oryx, kudus, gemsboks, spring-boks (great name for a beer, eh?), dikdiks, lions, ostriches and trees stranger than your weirdest dreams—just 500 kilometers to the north. There was a lot of strange desert and sand between there and here. I needed another Windhoek Lager. I was in a small state of serendipitous shock. I kept asking myself over and over, “How do I find these places?” I had just been wandering aimlessly,