Sometimes, Life’s a Beach

I was extremely pumped all yesterday evening because we were going to go to Lac Philippe today. (Do people still use the word “pumped”? What about “psyched”? Probably not.) Sure, I woke up at 8:30am, a half an hour later than I’d hoped to, but, hey, my well-deserved rest left me refreshed; I anticipated an excellent day ahead. We were on the road by about 10am—never mind that 10 was the time I’d suggested we aim to be there to avoid the crush. We arrived at the beach at 11:15am, lugged all our stuff (yes, even the pool noodles I insisted on bringing, much to James’s chagrin) down the sloping path paved through the pines, and spread out our beach blanket (to be accurate, it’s an old sheet). We waited for what seemed an eternity until the clouds passed and the rays descended—for all of a few brief minutes of warmth before the wind shooed them away. This happened two or three more times at intervals spaced farther and farther apart.

Now, I love going to the beach. I love soaking up sunshine, and then, when my skin gets to the point where it feels stretched tight from the heat, heading for the water. I’m not a great swimmer, don’t do much more than dog-paddle about, but I love curling a pool noodle around my back, under my arms, so it forms a U-shape, and then I hook my knees over the ends; I love bobbing around effortlessly like a big white and blue buoy until I’ve cooled off enough to want to go back to the sand. I love snacking on Ripple potato chips and fruit, all the while reading a book as I let the sun dry me off. Lather, rinse, repeat. And I dearly love the close of a perfect beach day: that sun-drenched skin smell, the mellow ride home, showering off the sand and discovering my souvenir tan lines are darker than I thought—total contentment.

Consequently, it was absolutely heart-wrenching to have to admit defeat. We retreated to the Pathfinder, all items, including aforementioned discomfiting pool noodles, in tow. I tried to be a good sport about it; still, the wake of disappointment followed me for the better part of the afternoon and evening. There may be other beach days, but I wanted this one for myself. (Sigh.) Small consolation, but I think my pale flesh was exposed to more direct sunlight while travelling on the highway and while lunching on the second floor patio of the Hard Rock Café overlooking the Byward Market than it has yet this summer. I tried to convince myself that tans are overrated, but then I read in the Citizen that a new study suggests that sunlight decreases the risk of breast cancer (although it still increases the risk of skin cancer). What’s a woman to do? I’m seriously toying with the idea of giving up the beach and purchasing a Mr. Turtle pool (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) for our backyard.