The issue with taking these concentrated mini-vacations… like the 18 hours I just had at the cottage with the girls before I left them with their grandmother, is that it makes me feel like I’ve got to cram in as much fun as can possibly be had that wee time.
(The first Cotty sock, reclining on the reading log at the beach.)
I definitely had it too. My nephew Hank and I looked at rocks and admired the pyrite sparkling in the water at the beach.
I read on the beach, we ran races on the sand.
(All of us, even though we’re mostly all grown up. Some family traditions are oddly sticky. Also, my sister is surprisingly fast.)
I swam and swam, all the way out to the big rock with Sam. (As one would expect of a sailor, she can swim like a fish.)
It was wonderful, and all to fast. I sat on the rock at the empty beach watching Samantha and Hank play dolphin (I thought 16 might be to old to play dolphin. I was wrong) and I started my second sock, and tried to figure out how to stay longer.
I left the girls there, to play and swim, and drove back to Toronto to work, with nothing but a nasty sunburn to show for it. (Yes, I was diligent with the sunscreen. It’s just a side effect of trying to enjoy the beach while you can be at it. I tried to avoid it, I got it anyway, I think it was worth it.) Now I’m here, and I wish I was there.
I’m not good at playing dolphin, but I’m pretty wicked at crocodile, and as Megan said "If you don’t know what those games are, you’re not doing the beach right."
I love summer.