When Miss Flowers said of Mr. Clinton, “You’d think the boy would learn,” she wasn’t talking about sunburn. Her comment came to mind as I carefully smeared after-sun lotion into my flaming neck and shoulders for not the first time in my life. 
  Sunburn was one of the first words I looked up in my English-Spanish dictionary. Sunburn, painful type: quemadura. 
  I had an excuse, though a feeble one, the first time I burned myself earlier this year. I’d forgotten how much less time it takes to burn at high altitude and low latitude. Guadalajara is above much of the blanket of protective atmosphere and the Mexican sun shines almost straight down. What seemed like only a short time basking in winter sun by a rooftop hotel pool in February was, judging by the degree of my burn, a long time. 
  My skin peeled, a common early setback in my annual quest to acquire enough tan that I won’t burn to a crisp later in summer when it’s warm enough to work outside without a shirt even in Sequim. 
  I’d been taking it easy on southern layovers, especially on the tropical beaches of Puerto Rico. Each layover left my skin rosy for a day or two, but the red always faded and left another layer of brown in my pale epidermis. 
  Maybe I was too confident. 
  I had enough time last week to explore Puerto Rico beyond the capital city. 
  The sun shone into the rain forest unobstructed by clouds and only slightly deflected by the tropical canopy not yet recovered from the shredding of the last hurricane that came through. 
  I’d forgotten my hat, so I tied a handkerchief over my balding skull in a manner much the fashion in some quarters. Only the tops of my ears felt they’d had perhaps too much sun by the time I’d hiked to a waterfall under which residents and tourists swam in a deep pool. 
  The water was cool enough to make me forget about the sun, and the sun was low enough in the sky when I hiked out that all consideration of solar exposure was forgotten. 
  Maybe that’s why my ears and neck burned the worst when I went to the beach the next day. 
  Instead of the nearby public beach, crowded even on weekdays, I went sightseeing by road and came upon a huge beachfront resort hotel and gated community complex that didn’t require a government security clearance plus a note from your mother to get in. 
  One of the hotels had not yet been repaired from hurricane damage and stood empty. The beach was not crowded. Palms provided plenty of shade, and a young man from Zimbabwe rented lounge chairs for only two dollars a day. 
  I might not have burned had the water not been so warm. The Caribbean doesn’t support icebergs anywhere, but the surf rolling in was several degrees warmer than what I was accustomed to. I felt I could stay in it all day. 
  I’d forgotten how the surface of the sea is like one of those aluminum collars some people wear to reflect tanning rays to shadowed sections of neck and head. With breakers crashing over me every few seconds, I didn’t feel the accumulation of radiation. 
  When I wasn’t in the water, I stretched on the reclining beach chair, careful to cover my pale feet and my overcooked head. I dozed a little, but only a little. 
  I knew even before I saw a mirror that I was in trouble. My chest and legs and back are red, but not too red. It’s my neck and head that feel like fire, everything that was above the surface of the sea most of the time I was in the surf. 
  K Mart may have saved me. I stopped on the way back to the hotel and bought a big bottle of after-sun lotion. I can almost hear the skin of my head and neck suck the goop into its pores. 
  If this burn doesn’t peel, I’ll have the darkest tan my Swedish skin can support. If it does, it’s almost too late in the year to start over. 
  You’d think the boy would learn.