There’s something you should know about me. I’m terrified of big waves.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the way they crash into the shoreline. I love the surf. I love the curl of the whitecaps right before they come collapsing down. I love the sound of rushing water. They sure do look beautiful from my beach towel on shore. But I’m terrified.
If you’ve read this blog in the slightest, you may know that I had the pleasure of spending my entire childhood traveling to Cocoa Beach, Florida in between jaunts up to our family cottage on Lake Michigan. My dad worked on Hubble Space Telescope, which meant that if we wanted to see him, we had to trek down to sunny Florida for shuttle launches, shuttle prep and everything in between. In those early years of Cocoa Beach, I became quite the boogie board pro. (I should take the opportunity to thank my sponsor, Ron Jon Surf Shop.) I loved riding those waves. But here’s the deal, it’s pretty easy to leave your fear on the coastline when you’ve got your daddy holding onto your board, releasing you onto the perrrrrrffecccct wave. Then, we’d take our boogie boards north to Lake Michigan for the summer. More perfect waves, this time unsalted (as Lake Michigan is a gazillion times better than the Atlantic Ocean).
So here’s my shameful, grown-up truth. I don’t like those big waves when I’m standing there alone, daddy-less. If they don’t knock me over, they will surely push my bathing suit in all sorts of uncomfortable, revealing ways. The way they swell, yards in front of me, smooth and quiet the way the best of predators hunts… no, it’s not for me. Oh, and that undertoe- people die from that, you know? Holds you under ‘til you drown.
Occasionally, I catch myself in the middle of a weather pattern change. Out there, chilling on the sandbar relaxing in the inner tube, most likely with a beverage in hand. And then, wham, the wind picks up and I’m out there moaning like a baby, trying to dodge the big waves. I’m not made for these things. And as I paddle and kick my way in, those waves keep on kicking my butt, literally, stripping me of my humility (and my bikini) as I run for the shore, attempting to save whatever is left of my dignity.
So, on days when I wander down from the cottage to see the lake looking like this:
I will nonchalantly tell you I’m really deep in the good part of my current read and I’ll stay on the beach doing this:
and bronzing like a goddess in ways such as this:
(which is the true reason for a beach anyway, right?).
*Filed under Wanderlust Life*