Over the holiday weekend, Gary and I packed the sunscreen and a cooler and hit the beach. At first we were like Goldilocks, wandering from spot to spot, dumping our stuff then packing back up because we didn’t like something about it, but eventually we found a square of beach that was just right, spread out the blanket, and settled in for the day.
Gary whacked a haphazard fingerful of sunscreen onto his face and started heading to the water. I called him back and told him to put more sunscreen on. After some grumbling and then a sarcastic, “Thanks, Mom”, he escaped from my SPF 50 grip and ran to the water. (When he doesn’t have a sunburn or skin cancer down the road, do you think he will thank me? Hmmm?)
I am pale as a vampire and intend to stay that way, so after emptying half the bottle of sunscreen, and after enduring more ridicule from Gary, I finally joined him in the water. Ahhhh, I love the sound of ocean waves. It’s absolutely hypnotic, and watching the sky, listening to the water, and just drifting around in the waves is beautifully relaxing.
When we emerged from the water to eat lunch, we became instant favorites of the ever-hungry seagulls. (I took the picture above as one of the seagulls hovered above my head, waiting for a potato chip.) Gary held his arm up, and seagulls plucked pieces of bread and bits of potato chip from his hand, more often than not crunching the chips and scattering bits into my hair. One of the seagulls felt brave enough to snatch a crumb that fell into my beach bag. (At least I was hoping it was a piece of chip and not my underwear.)
Our beach adventures didn’t stop at loud-mouthed and big-bellied seagulls, however. I barely survived a near-death experience with a bloodthirsty jellyfish…okay, maybe I exaggerate just a bit. Maybe it barely brushed me and left a barely perceptible red mark on my inner arm. But that doesn’t make nearly as interesting a tale as almost losing my arm, so each time I tell the story, the jellyfish will be bigger and bigger, and meaner and meaner, and my wound will be more and more life-threatening.
A man fishing from the beach caught a baby shark, the only dark spot to the day. Instead of tossing the poor, tiny shark back right away, the attention-hungry dumbass paraded around for photo ops, all the while dangling the baby shark by a hook in its face, something I am sure was more than a little unpleasant and uncomfortable for the shark. Long story short, Gary ended up with the shark and called me over to put it back in the water. The poor shark had dark blood swelled around the wounds where the hook had gashed him, and as soon as Gary saw the look on my face, he warned me not to try to touch the baby shark if I wanted to keep my fingers.
What, a baby shark doesn’t deserve a hug and a kiss before being sent back off into the ocean to heal? Maybe the shark needed some sunscreen…
I didn’t get a chance to coat the baby shark in sunscreen (or risk my fingers or face giving him some soothing TLC), because Gary lowered him back into the water, and the shark took off as fast as he could.
I wanted to hunt down the guy who caught the shark, jam a fish hook into his idiot mouth, and drag him around the beach for a while to see how he liked it. It isn’t catching the shark that made me angry; it was torturing the shark and refusing to remove the hook until it tore the shark to pieces that made me so damn mad. People who don’t give a shit about another living creature are the worst kind of beast.
I hope one of the overfed seagulls pooped potato chips and bread all over his head.