December 25, sunny, 40s. You know what that means: PERFECT BEACH DAY, BITCHES.
When does something become a tradition? I went to the beach on Christmas last year (remember how warm it was?) AND this year. I’m calling it: Christmas Beach Day is my official holiday tradition now.
Today, I saw a horse frolicking in the surf. A woman laughed hysterically on a seaside bench while talking on the phone. A guy walking his dog stopped as I was gazing out over the water and asked if I was looking for seals.
“If you go around that bend over there, you’ll see them,” he said.
I started walking towards the bend. He followed. Then, he scampered down some rocks and beckoned for me to come.
“OK,” I said. “I’ll follow in your footsteps.”
“I might be dangerous,” he said with a chuckle.
“Or I might be,” I replied without a smile. He gave a nervous laugh and considered me carefully for the first time.
“I better see some seals,” I added. “Or else.”
His name was Richard. The dog, who paid me no attention, was Tasha. His sister’s dog.
We got to the bend. Out across the water, I spied a sandbar covered in rocks and seals.
“Back there,” Richard asked, “when you said you’d better see some seals…were you suggesting you were going to kill me if you didn’t?”
“You’ll just have to wonder about that one, Richard.”
He stared at me.
“I’m a writer,” I said. “My mind always goes towards the darkness.”
“Oh,” he said, seeming only slightly relieved.
It was a beautiful day at the beach.