Night swimming

Things are looking up. I got the money that was missing from my last paycheck today, so I can actually celebrate my birthday in some style. Now, some of my readers have, I feel, implied that I have mentioned my birthday overly much in my last few posts both here and elsewhere, and that I might be perceived to be ramming it down people’s throats in an attempt to get more attention, presents, and gratuitous make-out sessions.

To these unfair accusations I can only respond:

Birthday birthday birthday birthday birthday birthday lalalalalalalala thursday Bastille Day thursday Bastille Day thursday Bastille Day birthday birthday birthday yay!

I certainly hope that clears things up.

The other reason things are looking up is because I finally made it to the beach today, and ooooh girl, was it goooood. Of course, I went at the offically correct time for natives and year-rounders to show their faces at the beach — suppertime. Not only do you not have to obtain “permission” from whatever snotty little UMASS sorority chicks they have guarding the gates, inspecting your car for a sticker, but you also avoid 99.98% of the teeming hordes, as they have all repaired to their “cottages” to wash the sand and seaweed out of their crotches, change clothes, and go pay way too much money for fried clams and cole slaw down the street.

So, more beach for me. Also, the water tends to be deliciously warm at this hour, having been simmering in the hot July sun all day long.

So I strolled to an isolated spot on my favorite beach after work today, dropped towel, keys, and trou, and walked straight into the slowly rolling swells. God, just thinking about it makes me want to get right back in the water. Maybe sans suit, this time.

Jesus, it has been far too long since I did that. If memory serves (and I wish to God it would serve something useful once in a while, like canapes or shrimp cocktail), the last time I went skinny dipping was in a mountain stream, about a year after graduating from college. I was out with a guy I had had a crush on for a full year and a half (and I’m highly skilled at carrying torches for extended periods of time, believe me). It wasn’t so much of a date as a bike ride that I had finally conned him into going on with me.

Our area had been going through a painfully jungle-humid phase that summer, and we worked together in a restaurant kitchen, regularly sweating through our chef jackets about five minutes after we put them on. It was horrifically brutal, and I had suggested a ride into the hills after a rare day-shift one afternoon, to maybe get some breezes blowing in our faces and then maybe coast downhill to a swimming hole.

By the time we arrived at the secluded swimming hole we had aimed for — which was fully equipped, mind you, with a waterfall and a naturally-carved, 6-foot deep limestone pool at the base of the falls — the sun was well into setting. We each waded around for a while, being happy and silent, just kind of wandering off into our own cool, wet, satisfied orbits for about an hour. Then we both had somehow wandered far enough away from each other that we each, apparently simultaneously, decided it was safe enough and dark enough to strip off our clothes and feel that amazing, deeply cool water all over our skins.

Dark, yes. Safe, no.

Predictably, we drifted back toward the deep pool, and each other. Later, we dried each other off and lay down on the damp grass and watched the meteors flicker across the sky.

It has been far, far too long since I did that.

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