Semi-Decent Proposal

One year late in the spring I am at the beach, and find myself in what can only be described as the world’s most heinous piano bar. The pianists, if I may use that term loosely, are spouting distasteful sodomy jokes (are there tasteful ones?) with disconcerting frequency. Perhaps they mixed in a few other jokes as well, but much like an imagined prison stay, it’s the sodomy you remember.

I am sitting between the girl I’ve been courting for quite some time and my ex-best friend’s wife, wracking my brain for a way to get the former to leave so the latter and I can have a couple of minutes alone.

You may be wondering, much like I was at the time: how did I wind up here?

It all began with a boy, a plan, and a healthy dose of absentmindedness.

First, the plan. We’d go for a walk on the beach, a place sewn into both our souls. I’d kneel down and propose in Spanish — she had lived in Spain for four months — reciting the words on the folded piece of paper I had kept in my wallet and rehearsed so carefully. Granted, it wasn’t any elaborate plan, but it was mine. I’d even gone old school and ask her Dad's permission. He, the jeweler, and I were the only people who knew anything at all about it.

We were on our way to the coast, thirty minutes into the five-and-a-half-hour trek when it hit me. (Apologies in advance for the language.)

“Crap!”

A pause.

“Crap! Crap, crap, crap!”

“What’s wrong? Did you forget something?”

“Uh…. no.” An obvious lie.

“Are you sure? We can go back.”

“No. It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. My non-elaborate plan had but one tiny flaw: I must not forget the ring!

We couldn’t go back for it. Even if we did backtrack, adding an hour to our trip, when I came out of the house, she’d be expecting me to be carrying something. Try as I might, I couldn’t think of anything to pretend I had forgotten that might seem worth going back for.

And so, we continued southward, past the familiar rolling hills north of Birmingham, my mind a million — er, thirty — miles away.

I could propose without a ring. She would be confused, at best; disappointed, at worst. Else I would have to wait until we returned and come up with some other probably even less elaborate plan. My heart sank into the pit of my stomach.

I texted my ex-best friend’s wife: “You will not believe what I did!”

And now four people knew.

(It seems worth noting here the reason he is my ex-best friend is simply because we drifted apart once he got married and then went off on some radical religious tangent. Nothing too sinister.)

They happened to be coming to the beach that same weekend. She was full of questions: Was there anyone who had a key to the house? Yes. The girl who would be coming by to feed Tony DiNozzo, my third-born Betta.

OK, so I guess it was just the one question. They would conspire. She would retrieve the ring from my underwear drawer — the place all men keep their valuables. I assume — and bring it South.

They would arrive Saturday afternoon. We would be departing for home Sunday morning. It would be tight, but it could be done. I was almost confident.

I had one last directive:

“Make sure you don’t get the wrong ring.”

“There’s more than one ring???”

“I was engaged before.”

Obviously, bringing the wrong ring could turn what I was naively optimistic was going to be a decent engagement story into one that would be… well, probably not even an engagement story at all.

Saturday evening, the prospective Fiancee Bone and I grabbed some seafood at Kenny D’s, then drove across the bridge to Okaloosa Island and the aforementioned Sodomy Saloon, the rendezvous point suggested by my now ring-bearing friend. It had taken some convincing on my part. It being our last night on the beach, the Prospective One wasn’t overly keen on spending part of it with my ex-best friend’s wife. But I persuaded her. Or more accurately, annoyed her about it until she relented. This is how I operate.

We got to the door. I nearly turned back. Cold feet? No. Ten dollar cover charge. Which, if you’ve never dated anyone, meant twenty dollar cover charge. I figured it up, it came to about a dollar forty-three cents per sodomy joke. I don’t know what the going rate is, but that seemed a tad high.

We must have sat there at least forty-five minutes. She who bore my ring and I casting glances at one another, trying to figure out how to make the exchange. (Which, as it turns out, you cannot do through glances alone.) She who may hopefully someday bear my child growing more agitated with each excruciating moment. Finally, an idea. My first.

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Prospective fiancee always had to go.

“No.” Of course.

At that point, I swear I began to see smoke. I’m not sure if it was from the bar or literal steam rising from her increasingly infuriated (and oh so adorable) head, but considering it was a non-smoking bar…

Then Ring Bearer excused herself to go to the restroom. I sat there for a good thirty seconds, clueless.

Oh! It hit me. "Um, I guess I’ll go, too.”

There was a lobby outside the restrooms. Ring Bearer wasn’t there when I went in. Thankfully, she was waiting when I had finished making my deposit. We made the swap. I pondered how many transactions just like this must have taken place in this very spot. Probably not many.

By now, it had gotten to be the sleepy side of 10 p.m. With a bit of a drive still ahead, I thought it would be too late to suggest a walk on the beach once we got back to the room. She would be suspicious. So instead, I suggested we go for a walk on the pier not far from the bar. Just the two of us. (I'm pretty sure that part was integral.) She agreed.

Partway down the pier, between people fishing and... other people fishing, I stopped and leaned against the rail. We chatted for a bit, looking out over the ocean and back towards the hotels and lights along the shoreline. It truly was gorgeous, out here, away from all the sodomy.

When I caught her looking away, I pulled the ring box out of my pocket. When she turned back I smiled and, gazing into those eyes so full of love — although maybe not quite as full as they had been a couple of hours ago — said, “Has anyone told you lately they want to spend the rest of their life with you?”

I then proceeded to kneel, and right there next to a sign that read “No fishing or diving,” I jumped right in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


She said yes. Eventually. Turns out at first it was so dark she couldn't see the ring. But I did get the Spanish right. Later she asked what I would've done if I'd dropped the ring into the ocean, you know, since it was right there and all. I had honestly never considered that, not surprisingly. We would be married about 80 miles down the coast a little over a year later. I volunteered her to be in charge of the rings.

"Someday somebody's gonna ask you / A question that you should say yes to / Once in your life / Maybe tonight I've got a question for you..."

Gone coastal

I'm back from my soul's vacation, my at-least-annual experiment in latitude reduction resulting in a slight, if mostly imperceptible, clearing of mind and refreshing of body. I have returned from my paradisical pilgrimage to the world's largest sandbox, where I enjoyed the never-ending symphony of Crashing Waves, an aging nature surf band -- it's an obscure genre.

In other words, I'm home from the beach.

This year's Destin getaway had a couple of marked differences from years past. In a cost-cutting measure suggested by my financial advisor, which is me, and concurred with by my travel agency, which is Yahoo Local, we stayed at a less-expensive place.

It was a quaint little motel with only four units and a gravel driveway. Surrounded on all sides by huge condos and three-and-four-story beach houses, it hearkened to an earlier time. A piece of old Destin preserved as it must have looked thirty years ago or more.

The owner has beach chairs and umbrellas that she lets you borrow. The rooms don't have phones -- not that everybody doesn't have a cell phone these days -- but each night, she sets a phone outside the office window for tenants to use. She's an older lady who seemed to appear out of nowhere at times, to recommend eating places and remind me to "Hon, make sure you rinse off the beach chairs when you're done using them, the sand is what causes them to rust." It was charming. Also, I made sure to rinse them off diligently from then on as I was a little terrified of getting in trouble.

The other departure from the norm on this trip was that we took a stroll through Harborwalk Village on Saturday afternoon. I'd eaten there before, but much like my feminine side, had never really explored it at all.

This is where I discovered that one of the boats which docked there was named The Bone Collector! Really? They're collecting me? Do you think it's possible there are more me's out there? Phew, I'm blowing my own mind right now. It's all too overwhelming to think about. The Bone Collector was out of port while we were there, which is a shame for the owners, as I'm sure they would have loved to take a picture with me.

Oh, I also wrote a poem. Nothing inspires me like the beach. Just put me in the sand and wait for the magic to happen. It was a little tough as I wrote in my head while lying on the beach then had to try and remember it so I could type it into my Torch when I got back to the room. At the time, I was sure it was going to be my first published piece of poetry and that Jimmy Buffett was going to turn it into a song and I would never have to work again. But that must have been the immense heat affecting my brain. Because as I read over it now, I can't even bring myself to post it here. (And I once posted this!)

You're welcome.

Otherwise, it was a pretty typical Destin trip. No schools of stingrays to run from. No heroic-in-my-own-mind underwater sunglasses rescue. Just a perfect, but all-too-brief escape to my favorite place in the world: the edge of the ocean. A place that feels even more like home than home some days.

The pull of the tide on my heart is strong. Each trip is never long enough. And it's always much too long until the next one. Maybe one day I won't have to come back. If that ever happens, you'll know that I am completely happy.

But you might want to check the hull of The Bone Collector. Just to be safe.

"Catch a marlin, catch a tan, catch a local cover band. Hey, you gotta watch that man. He'll go coastal on ya..."

Destin 2010

"I get ten vacation days a year, and I try to hold off from taking them as long as possible. This year I got to the third week in January." ~ Pam Beasley, The Office.

It's time now for a special Wednesday edition of Thursdays with Bone. Don't think of it as six days late. Think of it as a day early. Work was a malicious, spiteful, complaining woman last week. So even though I've only been back from the beach for ten days, I'm already in need of another vacation.

Day one at the beach included quite a scare for our hero. I was in the ocean when I heard some people yelling. I turned to see they were all looking my way and appeared to be very interested in something swimming in the water. Well, I swear it sounded like they were saying "Shark!" So naturally, I started splashing towards the shore like a frightened little girl.

Then I heard someone yelling "No!" When I looked, they appeared to be motioning for me to stay still. I'm sorry, but if there's a shark in the water, I'm getting out of the water. I might not be able to outrun it but it sure won't be for lack of trying. Finally, I glanced over in the direction they'd been looking and saw a school of stingrays passing just a few yards from where I was standing. Fine, so it wasn't a shark. I'm still getting out of the water.

I did, however, manage to redeem myself -- at least in my own mind -- a bit later when I rescued a girl's sunglasses from the surf. Despite her repeated assurances of "don't worry about it, they were only like ten dollars" I donned my goggles and dove into the water time and again, fearlessly. (The stingrays were long gone by this time.)

I should probably mention here that I have to hold my nose when I'm underwater. That really detracts from the whole Aquaman superhero image. Nevertheless, at long last I emerged, hoisting the glasses -- once thought lost forever -- into the air and returning them to their rightful owner. Another damsel in (slight) distress left... un...distressed.

In addition to visiting all my favorite places -- as listed in the post below -- we tried a new restaurant for dinner one night, an Italian joint called Graffiti. Your classic hole-in-the-wall, it didn't look like much from the outside. I may have even been a little afraid. (Despite what you might think, I don't have that much street cred. I'm more of a internet-message-board cred kind of guy.)

But it turned out to be a really neat place. The walls were covered with all this funky art, and every piece was for sale. The food turned out to be phenomenal. Having had my fill of seafood the previous two nights, I ordered the Greek pizza. And I tell you this, I nearly wept it was so good. It was like a full-body massage for the palate.

Finally, no recap of this Destin trip would be complete without mentioning the odd individual we came across while playing putt-putt one evening. Let's call him Master Putter.

He was a couple of groups ahead of us. Things kept getting backed up and we were having to wait a couple of minutes to start every hole. That's when I began to notice Master Putter.

He'd brought his own putter to the course, as well as his own golf ball. And he had a golf glove hanging out of his pocket. As if that wasn't enough, he was taking exactly four practice strokes before every. single. shot. Also, he was kneeling down attempting to read the green before every putt.

So even though it's taking forever to play, I'm thinking this guy must be really good, right?

Oh no.

We get to a place where the course sort of doubles back and I can see him putting. He hits an excellent first putt, leaving himself about 18 inches for a 2. He blows that about four feet by, misses the come-backer and ends up taking a 4.

Then I overhear him saying to one of his buddies (he was in a threesome... with two other guys, just in case I needed to clarify that), "Man, par would be a really good score on this course."

Par was 54. I shot a 45. I'll let you draw your own conclusions about the course's difficulty or lack thereof. Apparently, super putting was not one of Master P's super powers. Maybe he is invulnerable to women?

He was both hilarious and incredibly annoying at the same time. Then again, the same has probably been said about me a time or two.

On a much more serious note, the Destin beaches were in their usual pristine condition. Although with British Petroleum's continuing devastation of the ecosystem, who knows how long that will be the case. I realize the beaches are just one small part of the damage that is being done. Anytime they show oil-covered animals being pulled from the water, I can't even bear to watch.

But I love the beach. To think that it might not be there next year saddens me more than I am able to say.

"Are we losing the human race? Do we ever really learn from our mistakes? Who's ahead? Who's behind? Will there be a finish line?"

Feeding the fever

This week's Thursdays With Bone has been moved to Friday. Also, due to the fact that I'm currently at the beach, it is a repost. I know, we're already into reruns after one week?

Anyway, this is a post about a place I love. And it's where I'll be until Sunday. Hopefully, BP won't be destroying it anytime soon.

From 2007, here's a little number I like to call "The Fever."

On US Highway 98, just east of Destin, between Miramar and Santa Rosa, sits a little cafe called The Donut Hole. It's become tradition that on the day we leave the beach, we stop there for breakfast.I recommend the southwestern omelet. And the doughnuts, of course. I always get a box of doughnuts for the road. The food is great. The service sometimes lacking because it's so busy. But I've never been when there wasn't a line of people out the door and down the side of the building waiting.

I wish I was there.

There's a beachside restaurant called The Back Porch, with big bay windows to let in the ocean breeze, an outside bar, and picnic tables in the sand. I recommend the dreamsicle cake for dessert. And any and all of the seafood. You'll think they must have caught it that morning. And maybe they did.

I wish I was there.

There's an empty spot in the sand, just at the edge of the uprush, perfect for sitting. Where the water might wash over your feet once every five or six waves. Where you can bury your toes in the cool, damp sand, and think about anything and everything. Or nothing at all. And even though it's only a few hundred feet to the highway, it seems a million miles away.

I wish I was there.

I've got beach fever, if you can't tell. The highs have been between 60 and 70 here for seemingly the past week. I've been driving with the sunroof open, even at night. And last night before the storms moved in, it was warm and very windy, and reminded me of the ocean breeze.

So I've been listening to Buffett and thinking about the beach. The sand. The breeze. The waves. Gorgeous American girls working on their tans. All the while, me having no clue as to whether they are 16 or 29.

Last night, I opened the window so I could listen to it rain. Seemed like it rained for twelve hours.

That's another good thing about the beach. Even when it rains, it never seems to last very long.

I wish I was there.

"I got my toes in the water, toes in the sand, not a worry in the world..."

Three-thirty-one

On the way down to Destin this year, I found myself inspired by a road. By some of the things I saw and thought and didn't see. This post has kinda been in the back of my mind ever since.

US Route 331.

I don't know if it is possible to develop an emotional attachment to a span of pavement, but if it is, then I have. I love that road, and have driven every inch of it several times.

Coming out of Montgomery, as I-65 turns southwestward for Mobile, 331 heads almost due South towards the Emerald Coast of the Florida panhandle and her white sand beaches.

For 150 miles--nearly all of it two lanes--331 leads you through quiet countryside and quaint towns. None of which have populations of more than six or seven thousand. Towns such as Luverne, Opp, Florala, and Brantley. The latter has a sign proudly proclaiming it as the hometown of former NBA star Chuck Person.

They are hushed little towns where time may not have stopped, but it surely has slowed down. There's a simpleness there that I long for. There are town squares with time-worn buildings and empty storefronts, where I imagine that not too awful long ago you could go into the local drug store and find a real soda fountain. And just maybe, in one of them, you still can.

In between towns, there is more countryside. Houses, farms, and fields, interrupted only by the occasional gas station or roadside cafe. There are homemade signs for antique shops and a flea market, and a billboard inviting you to stop in at the It Don't Matter Family Restaurant. I always think about stopping, but haven't yet.

You will inevitably come upon a train of four or five or seven cars with out-of-state tags on their way to or from the beach. Having its southern terminus at Highway 98, a few miles east of Destin, 331 has been a popular route for beach-goers. But traffic has declined in recent years. For every open store there seems to be at least one other that's closed down. And at times, I'm overtaken by the sense of what I don't see and the feeling of what no longer is.

Several years back, there was talk of four-laning 331. But as other beach routes--supposedly quicker and passing through fewer towns--gained in popularity, that never came to fruition. And I for one, am kinda glad. I already get my fill of four-lanes and interstates. So I'll keep taking the road less traveled, literally.

Besides, little towns where people live and work and go to church, mow their grass and grow their gardens, raise their kids and put tacky lawn decorations in the yard--as the song says, ain't that America? Maybe not an America we hear much about anymore, but one that definitely still exists. You just have to slow down sometimes to see it.

"There's a place where mornings are an endless blue, and you feel Mother Nature walk along with you. Where simple people livin' side by side still wave to their neighbor when they're drivin' by..."

Destin '09

(I apologize for not being around more the past few weeks. Tonight is the Kenny Chesney concert, then Saturday is my 10K run. After that, I think things should start settling down a bit. I'm just now getting around to recapping my recent beach trip, which took place between the 30th of April and the 3rd of May, in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine.)

From the start, there was something different about this beach trip. And not just because Wolfgang and I both had freshly shaven heads. (Yes, when he saw mine he immediately decided to get his shaved. Let's not even analyze that.) No, it was something else.

Perhaps it was because LJ is dating someone for the first time this decade. He recently acquired a girlfriend after going to a speed dating event. They spend an inordinate amount of time on the phone. And although we--Wolfgang and I--still haven't met her, we agree that LJ will be married within a year. The whole trip, Wolfgang kept saying this was the last fling for the three amigos. I didn't even know he knew any Spanish.

Unfortunately, I was unable to use my camera this trip because, apparently, rechargeable batteries are only rechargeable up to a certain point. The cut off seems to be around four or five years. So I have no pictures for you today. Instead, close your eyes and allow my words to paint the images of Destin '09 upon the canvas of your mind. On second thought, you should probably keep your eyes open.

The highlights--or lowlights, I'll let you decide--began our first night there. I saw a girl who appeared to be pulling up her pants in the Wal-Mart parking lot. A bit odd, I thought, but figured she was probably just changing clothes or turning tricks. After she had zipped up, she saw me looking and said, "Yes, I just peed." As if you needed another reason to never go to Wal-Mart barefooted.

Things took a turn for the better on Friday, as I was lying on the beach tanning. (That is, exposing my body to ultraviolet radiation resulting in increased production of melanin; not making leather.) A girl, who I would presume to be between the age of 16 and 35--because who the heck can tell--approached me and said, "Excuse me. Would you mind helping us? We've got a pregnant girl down here and we can't get our umbrella to stay up." (See how much more attractive that is than "I just peed.")

Well, that sounds like a job for me. I sprang from my prone position and what did my wondering eyes behold but an oasis of girls about thirty yards down the beach. There must have been fifteen of them, and yes you guessed it, all between the ages of 16 and 35. Turns out it was a bachelorette party from New Orleans. I successfully planted their umbrella deep within the sand, received many words of undying gratitude, bowed graciously, then returned to my camp and said to Wolfgang, "Now let's get out of here before it falls."

Saturday brought another disturbing example of incorrect, inexplicable and inconsiderate human behavior. I was sitting on the second floor balcony overlooking the pool when a guy came walking down the sidewalk with a dog on a leash. He opened the gate, walked to the edge of the pool, picked the dog up, and PUT THE DOG IN THE POOL! The pool that people swim in! Thus answering that age-old question, what's worse than someone peeing in the Wal-Mart parking lot?

I couldn't believe what was happening. It was clearly posted, "No pets allowed in the pool." Do we really have to have a sign to tell people that? Well, apparently so. Needless to say, none of us got in the pool the rest of the weekend. And if I were a more confrontational person, there could have been a rumble.

As usual, enjoying some seafood was one of the highlights of the trip for me. We hit up The Back Porch, Fudpucker's, some place called AJ's, and of course, my beloved Donut Hole. I would be remiss if I didn't mention Wolfgang and LJ's ultra-conservative eating habits. Wolfgang ordered a burger at every single place we ate, except for the Donut Hole which doesn't even count because that was breakfast. LJ did the same, except he did branch out and order a barbecue sandwich at Fudpucker's.

In other culinary news, the All American Diner had closed down, tragically. That was a highlight for me. However, the Donut Hole was out of key lime donuts, which was a definite lowlight.

And so we close the book on Destin '09. A book with no pictures. Actually, there were a couple of pictures. Before we left Sunday morning, Wolfgang wanted me to take a picture of him, which I did because I needed him to take a picture of me and my hair, or lack thereof. Then he suggested we ask someone to take a group picture of the three of us together. Um, no. Maybe in Whoville. But not here in Heteroville.

Overall, it was a fun trip. The weather was beautiful and my head did not get burned. I returned home feeling refreshed and recharged. Once again left with that old familiar feeling of why have I still not moved close to the beach.

Will this be the last ride for the three amigos? Only time will tell. For my sake--and my blog's sake--I certainly hope not. That means I'd have to fast track going from friends-in-law to friends with Wolfgang.

"I took off for a weekend last month just to try and recall the whole year. All of the faces and all of the places. Wonderin' where they all disappeared..."

Whatever gets you through the day

I do not live my life moment to moment, hour to hour, or even day to day. I choose rather to live from point A to point B, where each point represents some event, great or small, that I look forward to. In this present life, I am currently up to point #75,461: Watching the Duke/Villanova game tonight. Point #75,460 was watching The Office earlier this evening.

In the next couple of months, I am looking forward to attending the Alabama A-Day game (and also eating at Taco Casa), seeing Kenny Chesney in concert, running my hometown 10K, and spending a long weekend in Destin. My calendar hasn't been this full in... well ever. Of course, I don't actually have a calendar. The only calendar I really need is the one that pops up when I double click on the time in the lower right hand corner of my computer screen.

These life events that I look forward to aren't always as grand as a beach trip or a concert. Most are rather simple things that help me get through a day, an hour, or a week without weeping openly. Things like dinner with friends, staying up to catch a favorite band on Carson Daly, or urinating without pain or difficulty.

I've done this for as long as I can remember.

- In second grade, I looked forward to kickball day in PE. Also dodgeball so I could really nail the kids I didn't like.
- In middle school, I looked forward to Weekly Reader day.
- In ninth grade, I looked forward to physics because I sat in front of Ally Purcell. She was a senior who would always fall asleep during class and I always took great pleasure in waking her up, if you know what I mean. (That doesn't mean anything, just trying to liven things up a bit here.)
- In eleventh grade, I looked forward to every other weekend so that I could go out with Rachel and make out in the back of her Camaro. (You might recall that I saved up my lunch money for two weeks so that I could afford to take her out.)
- Freshman year of college, I looked forward to Calculus so that I could go to the mall. Though I didn't look forward to retaking Calculus.

These days, a typical week might involve me looking forward to watching 24 on Monday night, golfing on Tuesday, getting to see Nephew Bone on Wednesday, and a nice long afternoon nap on Thursday. This is how I get through life. Or as the kids say these days, how I roll.

Show me a man who has nothing to look forward to and I'll show you a man who doesn't play golf.

Some might say that I am wishing my days away, rather than living in the moment, breathing in the sweet nectar of each precious second. To those I would say, Duke and Villanova are starting. After that, Letterman will be on. Then I'll probably get some baked Doritos and listen to iTunes while surfing the 'net in my underwear.

All of which are things I have been looking forward to all day.

"Don't blink. Just like that you're six years old and you take a nap. And you wake up and you're twenty-five and your high school sweetheart becomes your wife..."

The fever

The First Ever Roast-A-Bone is coming Thursday. Stay tuned for details...

On US Highway 98, just east of Destin, between Miramar and Santa Rosa, sits a little cafe called The Donut Hole. It's become tradition that on the day we leave the beach, we stop there for breakfast.

I recommend the southwestern omelet. And the doughnuts, of course. I always get a box of doughnuts for the road. The food is great. The service sometimes lacking because it's so busy. But I've never been when there wasn't a line of people out the door and down the side of the building waiting.

I wish I was there.

There's a beachside restaurant called The Back Porch, with big bay windows to let in the ocean breeze, an outside bar, and picnic tables in the sand. I recommend the dreamsicle cake for dessert. And any and all of the seafood. You'll think they must have caught it that morning. And maybe they did.

I wish I was there.

There's an empty spot in the sand, just at the edge of the uprush, perfect for sitting. Where the water might wash over your feet once every five or six waves. Where you can bury your toes in the cool, damp sand, and think about anything and everything. Or nothing at all. And even though it's only a few hundred feet to the highway, it seems a million miles away.

I wish I was there.

I've got beach fever, if you can't tell. The highs have been between 60 and 70 here for seemingly the past week. I've been driving with the sunroof open, even at night. And last night before the storms moved in, it was warm and very windy, and reminded me of the ocean breeze.

So I've been listening to Buffett and thinking about the beach. The sand. The breeze. The waves. Gorgeous American girls working on their tans. All the while, me having no clue as to whether they are 16 or 29.

Last night, I opened the window so I could listen to it rain. Seemed like it rained for twelve hours. That's another good thing about the beach. Even when it rains, it never seems to last very long.

I wish I was there.

"I remember Sunday mornings, walking on the beach. And that place we'd stop for breakfast, with the old red vinyl seats..."