Last night (well, Sunday night), I woke up feeling like I’d been cold-cocked in the face. Not sure if Craig accidentally rolled over and nailed me, or I did it to myself (my money is on the latter),because sadly, it’s not the first time.
Because of that, I was prompted to re-tell the story of how I did it last time, the day after we got married.
The day after we got married, the weather was cooperating…somewhat.
A storm system in New Zeland was pushing angry waves up onto the western shores. We’re not talking, ‘Woah, dude! Its surf season!’, waves. We’re talking ten foot at the shoreline, yellow flag, lifeguards on over-time ANGRY waves.
And, cold winds rolling right off the water.
If you’re a beach bum like us, who enjoys beach combing between sunning and finding a bar, you know that strong tides can either work for or against you. Sometimes, all that energy pulls up unusual finds from the bowels of the beast and brings them to shore. Rare shells, sea glass finds and the legendary message in a bottle.
However, at other times, any treasures churned from the ocean floor are either pulverized or washed back out, as soon as they wash in.
This trip resulted in the latter.
Tumultuous tides and a churning that could best be described as IBS even Satan himself would be weary of, made beach combing a pretty pointless activity.
We found a few nice shells the first day out, before the impact of the storm ‘down under’ really hit, but after that, it was all about soaking up some rays, staying warm and not being eaten by Poseidon’s angry minions.
Even the people fishing off Ocean Beach pier had a look of disappointment and despair on their faces, with little to show for their time and effort. If you think ‘resting bitch’ face is disturbing, you’ve never experienced ‘I’m losing at fishing’ face.
A bit discouraged ourselves, we decided to check out a different beach, hoping for different results.
Being the control freak I am, I’d picked up a bunch of brochures and magazines from the hotel lobby, trying to plan our next move.
Sitting in bed, drinking hot tea with orange from the hotel lobby, listening to Craig snore peacefully alongside the nasal rantings of Hank Hill on Adult Swim, I found myself somewhat mesmerized by a description of Pacific Beach in a San Diego magazine.
PB…THE PB. Where classy old hippies go to die!
(I feel like I should throw gang signs here….maybe pop some Viagra licked off a brightly colored “stamp”…)
So, that morning, after about ten cups of coffee (for me – I’m not a morning person, and Craig doesn’t drink coffee) and some pastries from the lobby, we head out with Pacific Beach in our sights. Of course, Cujo, my “smart” phone navigation lady, was on a bender and decided if you didn’t turn right, she was no longer going to be helpful.
Shit you not.
She became audibly more irritated every time we
I wished I had Gordon Ramsay navigating….at least he’d tell us we were fucking morons for missing the bloody turn. Cujo just PMSed and eventually, stopped attempting to be helpful.
Which, I might add, we could SEE the ocean….and it wasn’t ‘to the right’.
Fancy, is the best way I can describe Pacific Beach. Its like they send someone out to vacuum the beach every morning. All the hipsters out for a morning jog, who would probably be terribly embarrassed if their friends knew they jogged 50′ in their name brand spandex and then collapsed for 20 minutes before they washed, rinsed and repeated. Silver haired players in slick, nylon jogging suits, carrying Venti coffee cups, never bringing them to their lips. Reformed hippies, in their tie dye tees, staring into space as their little trophy dogs shat on the well-manicured greens.
But, hey! We’ll try just about anything once.
And, a beach is a beach.
So I thought.
PB is way too sterile. Too clean, and I don’t refer to human trash. Just…postcard perfect, snow white sand, marred only by large clumps of some kind of algae or seaweed that I affectionately refer to as ‘sea onions’, which the angry waves has obviously washed in.
Perfect people, in perfect poses.
Living in perfect pier houses.
But, we weren’t to be discouraged!
So, we go to walk down the perfect stairs to the perfect beach.
My job was to walk down three tiers of stairs.
If you know me at all, this is probably not terribly surprising. I’m clumsy, clutzy and not well coordinated in any sense of the term. I mean, I’d broken the same leg, six times in seven months.
But, it’s a special kind of special, that biffs it on the last tier.
Craig, bless him, is blaming it on the sand covered wood and lack of traction on my flip flops.
I know better.
About five stairs from sand, I slip.
End up on my tail bone, not the fatty cheek, two stairs up from where I was.
Stair corner in the back of my head.
And, the worst part?
I somehow, in all this mess, manage to cold-cock myself in the left eye.
I decked myself.
Insult to injury.
And, Craig still loves me.
Did I care? Not really. I bitched and whined about my ass and face hurting, but aside from that…nope. I learned a long time ago to laugh at myself. Maybe I gave the hipsters a laugh. Gods know they needed it.
Its probably on YouTube…blonde biffs it at beach. If you find it, tag me so I can see it how everyone else did. I’m sure it was hilarious!
After that, I plopped my aching ass in some sand and watched the strangely sterile waves batter a perfectly manicured beach, while Craig walked the water, looking for shells and other treasures.
Not a broken bipod to be found.
We stayed another half hour, and retreated to Ocean Beach. Yeah, the people might be…odd….but at least they’re human and not some mindless zombie, Stepford-Senior, robot colony.
We’ll save that story for another bedtime.
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