Last night, just before midnight, Miles and I decided to walk along the beach. It was a balmy evening when we set out in our swimsuits and sandals. The breeze flirted with our limbs as we shed our outer clothing—I was giddy to feel the waves cascade over my toes as we walked along the shore. Before long, Miles was dragging me into the water.
My grandmother is terrified of water, or of drowning, rather. She passed this fear to her children. My father, in his 30's, decided to break the cycle. He enrolled himself, along with his young children, in swimming lessons. I learned to swim at an early age...though my experiences have been limited to pools, lakes, and other such still bodies of water. Yes, in three years' time in a beach community, I've never taken a dip in the Atlantic.
I was very nervous, as it was very dark and I was very novice-ish about it all...but Miles was so excited, and I did my best to get into the spirit of the exercise. It was exhilarating!
Afterward, I made my way back to the car thinking, "Ok, good to know: Don't turn your back and walk away on an incoming tide." Well, that's not entirely accurate—I was thinking that when I had a mouthful of saltwater and a face-full of beach. On the way back to the car, I was actually thinking, "Wow—I never knew a bikini top could hold that much sand."
