I’m not what you’d call a beach person, despite the fact that I’ve lived just 15 or 20 minutes from the beach for some 40 years now. I have friends who pay a pretty penny to live near the sand and others who will come halfway across the country to play in it. But I don’t like sand in my shoes and clothes. I don’t like to sweat and burn in the hot sun. And I don’t like the crowds that gather because so many people do like it.
The biggest problem, though, is that I’m afraid of water. Have been ever since my father dropped me into a swimming pool at Boy Scout Camp Don Harrington in Texas when I was four. He said I wouldn’t sink, but I did. It may have been the first time he was wrong about anything. I remember crouching at the bottom of the pool, wondering if he’d come down and get me. He did, but I haven’t been crazy about water since.
My granddaughter, Katyana, won’t grow up that way, though. Her father takes her to the beach often. (Those are their footprints in the picture at the top of this page.) Their apartment is within walking distance. She loves the sun and the sand, though they slather her generously with sunblock, and she rides to the beach like a princess in a wagon with an umbrella. |
