Sand: A love story

This is how most children view the beach.

And this is how I viewed the beach.  I was a pale child.  The sun was not my

friend and I learned to fear and hide from it.  I don't tan.

Not even a little.  I go from ghostly white to boiled lobster crimson in minutes

regardless of whatever sunscreen I lather on.  I burn to a crisp. 

That's me as a child in the center of that towel.

I would sit like that the entire time we were on the

beach.  I loathed sand.  I went to great lengths to avoid getting

any of it on me.  Usually I would be foiled by a combination of sandy

wind and suncreen slicked skin.  After a few scratchy moments I would

get up and march into the chilly Atlantic to wash it off.

My younger brother was the opposite.  He practically ate sand.

He built sandcastles.  He buried himself in the stuff.

When it was time to go I would fill a pail full of ocean water and

lug it back across the hot sand and up to the sidewalk.  That way I could

wash the sand off my feet before putting my shoes back on. 

As a pale adult I go to the beach maybe twice a year. I lube up with 90 SPF and marinate

in the hotel room for an hour.  I hang out with the gang for ten minutes or so before taking

a dip in the ocean and heading back to the room.  Anything more and I'm living dangerously.

 

That's me in the sexy black socks and that is my neice.  This year after my traditional
shark safe waist deep wade in the ocean I heard a small voice call out as I began to
walk back to the room.  It was my neice.  She wanted me to come back and play.

My brother put up an umbrella and I took refuge in the shade it provided.
Then came the sand.  My neice poured handfuls of it on the blanket, rubbed it
in my hair and fed me sandy Cheerios; smiling, hooting and clapping in delight.
And I enjoyed every minute of it as much as she did, sand and all. 
Immersion therapy conducted by a one year old.