I want to go to the beach.
This weekend, I want to drive to Galveston. I haven’t yet been to the beach all summer. It’s been rainy and I’ve been busy. But not this weekend. I forbid it to rain and I will put my work aside for a while, because I’m ready to go. It’s time.
I’m going to drive to one of the beaches that costs money, but not THE beach that costs money (Stewart) because that one’s just insane. I’ll hit the seawall and then head left, to where it’s more peaceful.
I’ll wear my same old blue swimsuit. I couldn’t find a new one to buy and, really, I don’t care. I’ll bring a little cooler filled with drinks and sandwiches. I’m going to rent an umbrella and a chair. It costs a little, but it’s worth it.
There’s nothing better, to me, than sitting back on the chair under the umbrella and feeling the salty, humid breeze going over my hair, my face, and my toes. I don’t know if it’s a back-to-the-womb thing, or a back to my childhood thing, or a human thing, or what. And it doesn’t matter. I love to be there and it’s been too long.
Someone or other might go along with me, or maybe I’ll just go alone. Everyone always says, “I’ll go with you, but I won’t swim.” When I get there, I look at the grayish green, diaper-clad-child-filled water and say that I won’t swim, either. But I always do swim, and I always get my companions to swim with me. We wade through the seaweed and step on the unknown and squeal as the silver fish fly indignantly away. And I’m always glad.
I always take a book, or at least a magazine. That’s so I can have something to open up before I lie down and do absolutely nothing. No reading, no sleeping, no timing my tan. Just lying there and feeling the wind and the sun.
This weekend it’s really going to happen. No more broken promises, dammit.
I hope it doesn’t rain.
