I love the ocean.
I love the waves, the sounds of surf crashing on the shore, the flocks of sea gulls stealing food, the feel of the cool, white sand between my toes and watching the children waddle off with a diaper loaded from their sand castle.
The beach just makes me happy.
I love to read there. I love to hear music other than rap, country, opera or synthesized techno and watch the adults act like kids.
What I don’t do is sunbathe. If my legs happen to see the sun, ok. Otherwise, I’m not a sun worshiper like other coastal residents.
I’m close enough to the beach to be on the sand in 15 minutes, hiding under the pier or a large colorful umbrella.
I learned many years ago that I don’t possess enough melanin in my skin to produce a Hawaiian Tropic bronze color.
My brother, Stevie, told me “You’re so white you interfere with the Space Shuttle.” I almost believed that reflections from my legs would interfer with satellite signals; I didn’t want the space shuttle to land in Mongolia or Antarctica.
It would have been nice to be some other color than lily white. Beige is a good color.
Alas, my body was telling me what specialists say today, “the sun’s not good for the skin”.
Now, I wear a large ugly hat, use SPF 300 and when it is August or September in Eastern N.C., my sunscreen-body goes inside.