At the risk of being lemmings, the Mister and I took a day trip to our favorite beach. Our love affair with this stretch of sand and saltwater originated early in our courtship. I convinced the Mister it was one of the cleanest, sparsely populated beaches in driving distance and the Mister agreed to go along. The first time we went away together, we came here for a weekend. The following summer we returned to gather sand dollars. Years later, we out maneuvered a hurricane by two days to exchange our vows on the shore at sunset. I don’t know if the beach actually won over the Mister, it could have been the promise of grilled seafood at Julia Mae’s.

Like Salmon returning to spawn, we return to St. George Island, yearly. Sometimes once, other times more frequently. We’d made two trips this year, but both times we failed to cleanse our bodies in the surf and worship the sun. The first trip we never actually made it to the beach, and yes, I accept full responsibility for this little oversight. You see, I was distracted by a visit to the kayak store. When the owner offered to tow a trailer full of kayaks (think 12) to the bay for us to try them out, I couldn’t believe our good fortune, and voted against baking in the sun, in favor of paddling the marsh. We saw fish jump and cranes wading, but we never felt the sand beneath our toes.

When we made the other trip, we neglected to check the weather. The sky was cloudy and grey, and the air was chilly. There were scattered storms in the area and the water was choppy. Those weren’t really deterrents. We’re too pasty to consider sun bathing, and the rough surf was perfect for the boogie boards the Mister was dying to try out, but the water temperature brought all plans for frolicking to an abrupt halt. I tested the water with y toes and abruptly retreated to the car, and pulled a sweater over my head.

Saturday was absolutely perfect. It was eighty degrees and breezy. The air was free of humidity, and the water felt refreshing. We arrived at lunch and stopped at a beach side restaurant for fresh seafood. From our table, we watched shrimp boats drag their nets, and porpoises play in the surf.

We drove to the state park to unload our gear and get reacquainted with the sea. We’ve accumulated an overabundance beach paraphernalia due to end of season sales and Father’s day presents. We looked like that family from the Grapes of Wrath. Towels, sunscreen, snorkel gear, flippers, short wet suits (weren’t going to freeze our nads off this time), cabana, boogie boards, and cooler.

There we were after two trips from the car, struggling to assemble a cabana a boy scout could master after drinking a six pack. We were both battling the impulse to use personally directed expletives…but it was totally worth it. If you’ve never had a small tent’s worth of privacy on a beach, you should. If you have someone special in your life, he or she will thank you for it later.

Mister Hombre was disappointed in the waves, they weren’t magnificent enough to live up to his North Shore fantasies, but such is life. We mostly used them for buoyancy, floating beyond the sandbar and the breaking waves. In a fit of madness, the Mister dared me to try and balance on the board supporting my weight on my knees. So NOT going to happen, but it was worth a laugh, or six.

Exhausted from the surf, we returned to the cabana. I caught a lovely snooze. I don’t sleep well at home in my own bed, but I can snag a major power nap in a public space. I think it was the gentle sounds of the waves breaking, the shady cabana, the soft touch of the breeze caressing my salty skin, and the warm hip touching mine.

When we left late in the afternoon, we spotted a family carrying a cooler down the boardwalk. Someone was having a picnic later, and watching the sun set. Maybe another time.

On the drive home, we stopped for dinner at our favorite Italian franchise. Steamed mussels, grilled salmon, and chicken marsala (all diet approved). Seated at the counter, we watched the pizza chef toss dough into the air, and miss. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “You’re not supposed to watch.” Luckily, he didn’t honor the five second rule.