Abigail and I recently visited with family in Newport, Rhode Island. The estival season was upon us, so we resolved to hit the beach. Amid Coleman coolers and garish beach towels, we ensconced ourselves near the top of the slope where the dune grass grows. As a native Floridian, I refuse to swim in the Atlantic anywhere north of the 30th parallel, but my wife is trying to convince me that people actually swim up here.
I obliged and we waded in.
Because I’ve worn flip-flops all summer, the dorsa of my feet have outlines of dowsing rods etched into them by the sun’s persistent glare. I thought I’d rid myself of them, but alas, my damp feet attracted more sand than virgin scotch tape.