Beach vacations. Lazily lounging in the sand, soaking up the sun, enjoying the splashing waves, living the life. 

I’m not describing myself here. 

It is true I have spent plenty of my own time at the beach. Some years after my near-drowning experience, I returned to The Bahamas, but on different conditions: disaster response after Hurricane Dorian ripped through as a Category 5. While we worked hard during the week to fill in gaps in people’s lives as they recovered from the hurricane, we did take Sundays off to rest. 

We rented out a house to operate our office and living quarters, and just a few minutes’ walk away was the beach. It was a small beach that didn’t have much tourist attraction, which made it kind of perfect for some solitude. Other than a colleague or two and a Bahamian family also enjoying the beach, it was pretty much empty. 

I looked forward to my weekly beach time. It was November, and I knew back home there would be nothing like this type of weather. I had to enjoy every moment of it, so I found myself at the beach at really any spare afternoon or day that I had.

One afternoon, I was lounging on the beach when a noisy, old, beat up truck came rumbling down the road next to the beach. It pulled over just 30 feet or so from where I was. 

What do these people want? I thought to myself. The beach was tiny. Their truck was noisy. If they thought they were going to pull over and sell something to some tourist minding their own business, they had picked the wrong person.

Two young men got out of the truck and headed toward the bed. I watched out of the corner of my eye, not wanting them to know I was paying attention. I’ve sat on enough beaches to know that, when people sell you things on the beach, all it takes is a split second of accidental eye contact and you’re doomed to hear a sales pitch.

From behind the truck, each guy had an armful of the heavy cargo they were unloading from the truck.

Pigs.

At this point I stopped pretending that I wasn’t paying attention and fully turned my gaze toward them. They brought the pigs down to the beach, then ran back up to their truck.

More pigs.

One more load, and they had brought a total of six pigs down to the beach. 

I watched them. They watched the pigs. I watched the pigs. 

“Excuse me,” I said to one of the men. “Ummm… what’s with the pigs?”

“They like it here,” one of them responded.

I wondered how on earth they figured out that pigs enjoyed the beach. I later learned that on one of the islands, you can actually arrange a tour to swim with pigs on the beach, but this was not this beach, and these were not those pigs. But they must have been inspired by that and decided to let these pigs try it out.

That’s cool that they care enough about their pigs, I thought. 

The pigs gleefully rooted their snouts into the sand, flinging it up in the air. Laying on their sides, they let the waves splash and tickle them. Lazily lounging in the sand, soaking up the sun, enjoying the splashing waves, living the life. This was not merely a person’s ideal afternoon. It was a pig’s vacation. 

“So, you have pigs as pets?” I asked. It was surprising to me, but not too unusual.

They laughed. “No, these aren’t our pets!” They were amused by my preposterous question. They looked at each other almost like, “How could she ask such a silly question?”

”So, if they aren’t your pets, then… what are they?” I asked. Why else would you treat a pig to a beach vacation?

They laughed again. “We are going to sell them in the market!”

“Like, right now?”

”No!” They laughed again at the confused American. “Sometime later, but not now. We just bring them here for them to enjoy the beach.”

After about 20 minutes, they loaded all the pigs back into the bed of the pickup truck and they drove away, happy pigs in tow.

I was struck by the kindness, and even respect, that they had for these market animals. I’ve traveled all over the world, and most of the time I see animals treated regrettably poorly. These guys seemed to find a sense of delight in watching the pigs take a beach vacation, even though eventually they’d be slaughtered and sold.

Then it got me thinking: for all the jokes we make back in the States about organic beef being treated so well they receive massages, pedicures, and personal therapy, had I actually encountered someone who actually did care for the well-being of their creatures? When I buy organic meat, I expect them to have a diet natural to their species, as well as to not be abused and to have as humane a death as possible. I don’t actually expect them to be treated to beach vacations. 

But maybe I should. I’ll have to start asking if those animals ever earned vacation time or other benefit packages. 

If they think I’m crazy, I’ll just refer them to the highest quality of pork I’ve ever seen in my life.