Friday, June 02, 2006
Beach! Beach! Beach!
It was nearly 80, hot and muggy. Groceries awaited buying, grass mowing and laundry folding. But I wanted to go to the beach. Let's be honest. It was BECAUSE of all these things that I wanted to go to the beach.
We're out of practice. We remembered towels, water, sunscreen and the beach umbrella (which we'd forgotten all last summer). However, we forgot to put an actual bathing suit on Little Big Man, or even a swim diaper. Somewhere in his room is a new pair of snazzy swim trunks that I'd bought him for our last trip to Phoenix (in a fit of optimism, I decided that even though we were going to be in the desert, in a state suffering its worst drought in decades, and hundreds of miles from a coast, there was the possibility we were going to go swimming. We didn't).
Down at our local beach, we headed for the spit of land that sticks out into the harbor. The deep blue water was cold. But closer to shore, it was refreshing.
And what did we see? Horseshoe crabs. Tons of horseshoe crabs. Homely, warty crustaceans were not only scooting back and forth just off the beach, waving their pointy tails, they were getting it on. They were getting it on BIG TIME. "I had no idea we were going to see so much hot horseshoe-on-horseshoe action," I said, the three of us staring into the water, fascinated, as yet another pair glided by, shell clipped to shell.
The crabs were so horny, some of them made beelines for our feet. Twice I hauled Little Big Man out of the water so they wouldn't walk across, or do worse to, his toes.
Big Big Man watched as one approached him with all the coyness of a frat boy who's just heard last call. At the final second, just before it would have mated with his ankles, it pulled a sharp U-turn and plowed away as fast as it had come. Big Big Man channeled the crab: " 'Boy, that was embarassing. I hope none of my friends saw that.' "
It was nearly 80, hot and muggy. Groceries awaited buying, grass mowing and laundry folding. But I wanted to go to the beach. Let's be honest. It was BECAUSE of all these things that I wanted to go to the beach.
We're out of practice. We remembered towels, water, sunscreen and the beach umbrella (which we'd forgotten all last summer). However, we forgot to put an actual bathing suit on Little Big Man, or even a swim diaper. Somewhere in his room is a new pair of snazzy swim trunks that I'd bought him for our last trip to Phoenix (in a fit of optimism, I decided that even though we were going to be in the desert, in a state suffering its worst drought in decades, and hundreds of miles from a coast, there was the possibility we were going to go swimming. We didn't).
Down at our local beach, we headed for the spit of land that sticks out into the harbor. The deep blue water was cold. But closer to shore, it was refreshing.
And what did we see? Horseshoe crabs. Tons of horseshoe crabs. Homely, warty crustaceans were not only scooting back and forth just off the beach, waving their pointy tails, they were getting it on. They were getting it on BIG TIME. "I had no idea we were going to see so much hot horseshoe-on-horseshoe action," I said, the three of us staring into the water, fascinated, as yet another pair glided by, shell clipped to shell.
The crabs were so horny, some of them made beelines for our feet. Twice I hauled Little Big Man out of the water so they wouldn't walk across, or do worse to, his toes.
Big Big Man watched as one approached him with all the coyness of a frat boy who's just heard last call. At the final second, just before it would have mated with his ankles, it pulled a sharp U-turn and plowed away as fast as it had come. Big Big Man channeled the crab: " 'Boy, that was embarassing. I hope none of my friends saw that.' "
