I could totally be a beach bum.
Sand – no problem. I’ve got a wire coat, nothing sticks to it.
Surf – I’m faster than any wave and dry off in 1.3 minutes with a stiff breeze and a towel.
Babes – Well, look at me. Obviously not an issue.
This weekend They packed me up, threw some camping gear in the back of the Dirtmobile and headed off to get away on an annual trip with a bunch of friends.
This trip takes me by surprise every year. First thing – They don’t get away. Weekends are Workends. Wood splitting, plant whatevering, house fixing, barn roof tarping…it’s evidently what you do when you’re over forty and have property and aren’t smart like dogs who live there for no work whatsoever (you can’t call hunting varmints work). The smart people are all at the breweries. We see their cars sometimes on the way to Lowes.
Totally losing the point – A N Y W A Y…. there we were, at a beach in Delaware.
Wait. Let me just pause one more second ’cause I know that you West Coast people just started laughing and I gotta clear this up.
That brings me to the second surprise. They have cool beaches. No. Really. Here’s an early morning photo. If it makes you more comfortable, just pretend it’s evening and the sun is going down.
So, like I said, there we were, at a beach in Delaware. Cape Henlopen State Park. It’s built around a WWII fort and feels like one of those old ghost towns — if ghost towns had 16mm guns mounted in strategic positions and observation towers made out of cast cement. But it’s pretty cool. I could feel all the testosterone bubbling around inside of me just looking at them.
But She’s not interested in guns – or at least guns that big. She wants to hang out on sand dunes and stare at that sun rise and take three mile death marches around the Point while being sandblasted in two directions. And She wants to do it all slowly cause that Lyme disease stuff is doing it’s thing again and makes Her grumpy.
I told Her with a few well-timed barks that there’s no use sitting on your butt on a dune when you can be chasing a ball down the beach.
She saw it my way in the end. I just didn’t expect the death march. And it turns out the ocean is like a big salt lick when you’ve got a mouth full of sand. So that was a little rough.
We made it. I don’t think He was that excited, but hell, He once spent nine months in the sand marching around Kuwait breathing oil smoke, and it was totally better than that. Most of the time He skipped the beach for the guitar, and because I’m the loyal guy I am, I kept Him company.
Anyway, that’s probably all the rec-reating these people are going to do for the next few months. She’ll be digging in some ridiculous amount of windbreak trees and He’ll be splitting more wood. Aaaaaaaand the smart people will still be at the breweries.
Me? There are about 42 moles around here with my name on their back. It’s gonna be a great weekend.