We weren’t dressed for it, but we couldn’t resist. We had three hours before our flight. Wait in the airport, at LAX?
I don’t think so.
Before the engine of our rental car shut down, my wife was out the door and on the beach. I carefully took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my pant legs, grabbed my camera and sauntered after. The sand felt good on my toes, cool and rough.
We have a little saying in our bathroom at home, at home where it’s cold. “If you’re lucky enough to be at the beach, you’re lucky enough.”
I must be very lucky. I married a California girl. Like a rechargeable battery, she draws life from the sun, the sand and the waves. I draw life from her. We don’t live in California anymore, so it’s probably okay that I look like a tourist. I wasn’t born here. I don’t live here. But I did, sort of, adopt this place. I’ve lived here longer than any other place. So, we visit often, to see our children, and, although I don’t feel old, our grandchildren, and, the beach.
I could mark the years of my life in the footsteps on the sand, but I always lose track when the waves wash them away. The feelings remain as the memories flood in and out with the surf. I could come back here and know that I would be welcome.