Bright warming sunshine, searing blue skies, brown pelicans soaring overhead like small aircraft (but less noisy), the salt and the smell and the spray of the sea. “God help me, I do love it so” (George S. Patton).
Splish Splash
“And now for something completely different” (Monty Python):
A quasi-Jack Handey take on my humble afternoon.
So we begin anew:
Bright warming sunshine, searing blue skies, brown pelicans soaring overhead like small aircraft (but less noisy), the salt and the smell and the spray of the sea. “God help me, George is dead” (I said). “Forget him. Back to me.”
So because I don’t live near the beach—well, “near” as in within, say, about 13 blocks, give or take, as the crow flies (or, in my case, as the dog walks), which actually isn’t very far at all, come to think of it, especially at a brisk exercise pace, which we do regularly, and certainly as compared to living in, say, Houston or Dallas or especially Peoria, where I wouldn’t particularly want to live even if they had a nice beach with big, soaring, mostly silent, non-aircraft pelicans. No, on the whole, I’d say I live pretty darned close to the beach, in the grand scheme of things, and I think Einstein would concur with that, were he not as dead as old George S.
Small feathered aircraft
And because I don’t live on the beach (I probably should have couched my remark that way in the first place and said “on the beach” and not just “near the beach,” since we have already determined that, in the grand scheme of things, I actually do live “near the beach”)—well, “on” as in I might actually be able to see the water from my front porch, which, of course, I can’t because, first of all, there are just way too many houses between me and the beach, and (b) (secondly? on the other hand? [2]?) my modest domicile is but a simple, tidy, one-story affair, very cute and endearing, certainly, but never designed to be some lofty platform for viewing spectacular, panoramic vistas, so it would be fairly impossible for me to see any water at all from my front porch (except, of course, in the case of a heavy downpour or, slightly worse, a tsunami of at least 17 feet), even if I donned those old high heels that are collecting dust in the back of my closet and stood on a rather tall box.
And even though I don’t live within sight of the beach, even teetering on those old spikes, and on top of a (don’t get me started) soapbox, today it wouldn’t have mattered one single whit, because the day was absolutely glorious and hence the inspiration for this post.
A leg up, or four, coming soon
So I gave the pup (which would be Tip, of course) a leg up (plus three) into the cab of the truck, and off we sped, island-time (i.e., leisurely), for the seawall, to soak up some sun, sea breezes, and calm. So soothing was it, we could have stayed forever…
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What is it about the sea?
Perhaps that on a similarly sunshiny day, in our faint eonic past, we dragged ourselves from it, on strangely elongated fins, to warm ourselves for a time, but warily, in a brief respite from the brine, on some faraway glistening shore…
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Probably.
Mostly, though, it just makes me really hungry for oysters on the half shell (sorry, cousin!), with a spray of fresh lemon and a heavy drag through some hot-peppered horseradish. Tip!
