Beachcombing

Friday was a Perfect Beach Day. (When I lived in Boston, a local radio station -KISS 108-FM, to be exact- started rating the summer days on a scale of 1 to 10. A 10 was a Perfect Beach Day. They caught some grief over it, as local businesses noticed a decline in attendance on those days...)

Friday was a 10+. 

It was breathtaking. Just a hint of a breeze, no bugs, and hot bright sun. Woo-hoo!

 

We grabbed the kids as soon as school let out, and headed down.

I even grabbed a couple of loaners.

Thing Two heard 'beach' and had big plans.

Needless to say, he was disappointed when The Big Guy told him he was NOT swimming in 48' water. Not yet.

He got over it, as soon as he realized the other kids were completely ignoring the 'stay out of the frigid, hypothermia-inducing water' command. They all put their feet in.

It was hard not to.

Later, they "fell in", and were pretty wet.

I put my feet in, too. I have graduated to the 'old' club. When I moved here Zack, Nate and Kristi were 14, 12, and 12. Yikes, they all have kids of their own now!

They told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn't swim at Eastern beach, I was one of the Old Folks.

Oh. Yeah. I. Did.

It hurt, it was so cold. After a minute, it no longer hurt, because everything was numb.

I did it every year until I got pregnant. 

I concede defeat. Something RRRReally big and scary would have to be chasing me to get me to run into that water!

Someday I will find yarn that looks just like these colors, and I will knit with nothing else. Amen.

My favorite view, coming down the road (euphemism, that. It's more like a cowpath. Good trail; bad road.)

You're surrounded by trees, and suddenly, bright blue ocean appears...

I always want to make some noise...call out, or sing,  something, to alert my presence. No telling who, or what you might interrupt on the beach!

There are usually deer around, too...and now we've got a moose about.

Fortunately, I don't usually need to sing, because inevitably I stumble on those wiggly rocks (worse than the old cobblestones in Boston), and curse loudly, thereby announcing my presence. That's how everybody knows it's me

It didn't take him long to remember what else he loves about the beach.

A new tradition. Take off your socks to use as a loot bag. They fill their socks with pretty rocks and sea glass. I return them to the beach the next day. Don't tell them!

We have the same exact rocks all over our property, especially in our driveway. Don't tell them that, either, or they'll dig it up and I'll have nowhere to put the truck!

I had one of the most relaxing weekends, ever. I even knit, which is becoming rarer and rarer.

One of those nights, I got tired of the 2x2 rib on the b-day gift (I.hate.rib.), and switched to this for one repeat.

And I forgot the two cardinal rules of lace:

1. No Lace After Wine.

2. No Lace After 2am.

Had you been in my living room around 3am Saturday night (Sunday morning?) you would have seen Branching Out sprout wings and fly across the room. There might have been loud cussing accompanying its flight. Maybe.

In the light of Sunday morning, with coffee in hand, I quickly found that I cannot count to 31 after 2am, with wine on board.

Lesson learned. For today.