The photo above is from 2015, from the first day I spent at the beach with my Curly Haired Wonder. It’s been our place ever since.
Do you want to go to the beach tonight?
She has a tendency for impulsiveness.
But, then again, so do I.
A mutual need for freedom found us at Surfside beach past ten at night, bundled into human versions of a seven layer dip you might take to a party.
Layers upon layers upon layers didn’t keep our extremities from going numb. I suddenly understood what was meant when cold is described as “numbing.” And it wasn’t even my cheeks or my nose (as are often tied to the phrase). No, it was my thighs and my rear end, friends. There were sharp little pinpricks driving into my derriere and legs, and there wasn’t anything to do to stop it.
So we walked all the way out to the end of the jetty, right? Imagine this: a short, curly haired pixie play-acting as a mobster, twirling a baseball bat with the hood of her jacket pulled so far forward it nearly hid her eyes. Said pixie appeared to be escorting a taller, less agile hippie shining a miniature flashlight over the edge of the woven blanket wrapped around her shoulders. We jumped at basically every noise.
We being me, of course. My Curly Haired Wonder is a much less fearful creature than I am. She didn’t jump at the foghorn (which we agreed is a silly name for something that is used even when there isn’t any fog), or the folding chair left abandoned on the rocks (which we agreed looked suspiciously like some evil ocean-monster climbing up the jetties to eat us).
Which led to: the waves crashing against the rocks hit at just the right angle to appear to be clambering their way up the rocks, and I have a scene for a story looping in my head about a road into an abyss or the darkness or something sinister sounding, and DOW mermaids are probably evil because the chemicals have turned them toxic.
The version of this that I told myself as I fell asleep after she brought me home was much more eloquent. I hate that I didn’t get up to write it down.