Thank You For Not Dying

Jeff's alarm filled the sensibly sized hotel room. It was precisely 6:32 am. It made no sense to mess with routine, holiday or not.

Jeff placed his nightcap on the bedside table beside his half full water glass. One must be prepared for thirst, but not recklessly so.

As he walked towards the window that would provide him a view of the Mediterranean, he noticed a note placed on the table next to the door. It was not there the night before, though the intrusion that must have been necessary for its placement barely registered. Important information was after all important information.

The note was handwritten in black ink, in all capital letters. It was on official Majorca Crescent Resort paper, with the hotel's signature M on the top left corner.

The note said:

THANK YOU FOR NOT DYING - THE MANAGEMENT

Jeff read the note through twice, as was his practice. Though in this case the second reading was a necessity.

He felt his pulse to ensure that he was in fact not dead. He would hate to receive unwarranted thanks, almost as much as he would hate to learn that he was dead. He was very much alive.

"Perhaps," he thought, "this is a Spanish custom.

He had read four books about Spain and Spanish customs in the months leading to his trip. Though he begrudgingly had to admit, if pressed, that one of them had been about both Spain and Portugal. He was glad he had yet to be pressed on the matter. This custom had not appeared in any of them. Still it was the likeliest explanation, and the most likely explanation was usually the correct one.

He put the note into the pocket of his Majorca Crescent Resort housecoat, and prepared himself for the continental breakfast that awaited him in the dining room. Breakfast service would begin at 7 a.m., and there was no sense in being late.

Later that afternoon, after a stimulating morning of visiting post card shops in search of an ideal card for Jane from floor three, Jeff found himself in a local shop. He had visited the shop in hopes of purchasing a one litre bottle of unfiltered spring water, preferably originating in the Nordic region. He had also decided to treat himself to a Golden Bosk Pear.

Once at the till, he handed the shop keeper the precise asking amount of three euros. She took the money and handed him a bag, which he refused as he had room for the water in his knapsack and he would eat the pear while he walked to the beach.

As he moved to leave, she motioned for him to come back. He did. She spoke in perfect English, which he was ashamed to admit surprised him.

"The management told me to thank you again for continuing to not die."

Though her English was flawless, it took Jeff a moment to take in what he had been told. He thought for a moment about inquiring further, but the queue behind him was fairly long and he didn't want to be a bother. So he left and he ate his pear.

The water was warm. Just as the books had said it would be. Or at least three of the books, the fourth hadn't mentioned water temperature as so much of it was taken up with information about Portugal.

The waves were high, but Jeff saw no danger in walking into the sea. As long as he didn't venture into water that was deeper than waist height he would be safe.

Judging water height was more difficult than he had expected. Within minutes of finding his ideal depth, Jeff was accosted by a particularly large wave and found himself, albeit briefly, submerged in his entirety.

As his head broke the surface of the salty water he looked back at the shore. Every single person on the beach was standing. They were all staring directly at him. They shook their heads in unison, disapprovingly.