The Beach: July 10, 11, 13
I feel sorry for cliches. Sometimes people use the same phrase over and over because it's true, and those poor cliches get mocked when all they've done is actually say what everyone was thinking. No one takes them seriously. But sometimes it isn't you, it really is me. And when I get really high up enough, people do look amazingly tiny, like ants. The Mona Lisa is smaller in person than it seems in pop culture. And the ocean in Florida is warm.
I've only been in the Atlantic once before, and that was Delaware in November. In San Diego, even during the hottest point in summer, the ocean is cool, almost cold. Every step deeper makes me gasp a little -- the shock of cold, then the relief. The ocean in Florida was warmer than a swimming pool. I could just keep walking in.
When I see water I forget everything else I might have been doing, or wanted to do. I stop being able to think. I broke my phone a couple weeks ago, walking straight from the street into Lake Michigan. I almost did it again on the beach in Jacksonville.
I don't know why I love the ocean so much. It's calming, but I'm pretty good at calm. I'd like to say, because it sounds good, that when I'm out there I enjoy the moment, the physical sensations, being the player and not the narrator, but it isn't true. I'm just as in my head when I'm half floating in the ocean as when I'm sitting here typing. There's always a part of me that's writing things down for later, telling myself my story as I live it. That never goes away.
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