Things the beach has taught me

27 Jun

Over the past six months, I have stepped foot in both the Pacific and Atlantic oceans. This makes for a wildly happy Jaclyn. The last time my foot was in an ocean was Friday around 11 p.m. The beau and I had just had dinner at The Oceanic, and we’d dined on the dock that jutted out into the sand. We listened to the surf as we ate seafood that may have been alive that morning, and I marveled that such romance is normally saved for the movies. But then the wind started blowing so hard, it tossed around the silverware, so all was right again.

Wrightsville Beach, about four miles down from our hotel in Wilmington, NC.

After dinner, we took a walk and tried to coax the clouds into parting so we could catch a proper glimpse of the full moon.

Despite the San Diego jaunt in January and the handful of times I’ve been to the Gulf side of Florida, this vacation marked the first time I ever really played in the waves. And I learned lots:

  • First thing’s first: Swimsuit models’ jobs are way harder than I could have ever imagined. There is NOTHING sexy about drowned rat hair, and I found it near impossible to keep my feet under me as the waves tried to swat them away. I’ve always had the grace of a blind elephant, but this was ridiculous. Plus, sea water down the throat BURNS, and removing said sea water from your nasal cavity after a few gallons deposits itself is not sultry so much as snotty.
  • That last instance, the snorting of the seawater, really proved to me the beau’s affection. I needed —  NEEDED — to blow my nose after this wipe out. Alas, everything I touched was covered with sand. As I eyeballed the dry towel, the one I planned to lay on as I read, he handed over his shirt. “Are you kidding me?” I asked. “Take it,” he insisted. “Seriously?” “Yup.” “Dude, this is really gross.” “It’s fine I swear. We’ll rinse it in the ocean.” “Fine, there’s no turning back now,” and I proceeded to blow my nose in my boyfriend’s shirt. “Wow,” I told him. “You really like me.”
  • The ocean is really nothing more than a 15-year-old boy; it was determined to get me out of my bottoms. Thank God they never actually floated away, but I know I mooned me some North Carolinites. Sorry, folks.
  • Bathing suit bottoms can hold a surprising amount of sand. A few times when the water knocked my feet from under me, I fell with a scratchy but happy thud. That evening, I waited until I was in the shower before I dismissed the swimsuit; no need to get sand all over the place, right? Well … Despite how much time I spent on my ass in the Atlantic, I had NO way of knowing how much sand could wind up in the bottom half of a bathing suit. Now, I tend to don a two-piece, but not one of those could-double-as-a-pocket-hanky two-pieces. I’ve got some junk in my trunk, and my bathing suits need to accommodate. However, this does not change the fact that, with the amount of sand that fell from the tush of my two-piece, I could have constructed a dream castle for Barbie.
  • The last thing the beach taught me? That I was right: Despite the desperation of the surf to both disrobe and de-snot me, I loved it. Loved It. LOVED IT. There really isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be than the water.

Except for maybe the mountains.

A river in the Smoky Mountains. We proceeded to climb these rocks and splash in this river. It made for possibly the most fun I've ever had.

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2 Responses to “Things the beach has taught me”

  1. Suburban Sweetheart June 27, 2010 at 8:43 pm #

    “The ocean is really nothing more than a 15-year-old boy; it was determined to get me out of my bottoms. ”

    I snorted.

    I hate the ocean, but I love this post. ❤

  2. Dana June 28, 2010 at 9:48 am #

    Thanks for fortifying my determination to get the hell out of Ohio. 🙂

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