She Smells Sea Swells

Nope, no caption contest last week. Called on account of illness. See, there was this outbreak of hooky-playing at my house, and we all caught it. (It’s always rampant this time of year.) Nothing to do, really, but wait it out.

At the beach. In the sun.

I’ve been fighting this hankering for a while—a very distinct urge to wade in the water and dig my toesies in the sand. But the Boyfriend’s been working a hella lotta weekends, and it wouldn’t be nearly so fun without him. So “the beach, the beach, we should go the beach…” was about as far as we’d gotten. Then, Friday, the planets aligned. I mean, he had the day off. And my boss was gone. And I’d had a ridiculously slow week. Plus, the weather? Glorious. Not a cloud the whole day, no humidity, and tons of just-right sun. And did I mention it was Friday? If I had picked any day this year to call in sick, this would be The One.

A few errands later, we grabbed a bus and were on the sand by early afternoon. In case you’re wondering, yes, Chicago has real beaches. Sand, shells, gulls, lifeguards—the whole package. Kicked off our shoes and proceeding with the wading, splashing, and generally mindless fun. The seaweed/algae/plant stuff is all over the place right now. According to my dad, it’s a seasonal thing, and all that biomatter will start to stink next week. (See—I told you we went on the right day.) We watched it come up in big waves. Like The Boyfriend said, it was like walking on a squishy carpet. He was braver than I, walking out so far that the water was almost up to his neck. Since I had the cameras, I stayed a little closer to shore—about mid-thigh was as far as I got.

So freaking fun, I can’t even tell you.

What a blast to stand there in the water and feel it push and pull around you. Even better—the waves. So many waves. And so funny to watch The Boy raise his arms hallelujah-style every time a big one hit. Man, did we get soaked. Wringing-out-the-t-shirt drenched. But it couldn’t have been better. After, when we realized that no bus or cab would have us in our condition, we walked to get dry. Went to the end of the beach, then back into a wooded, grassy area. Far enough and sheltered enough that we couldn’t even see or hear the city. It might as well have been Cape Cod. Delightful.

We got drier, but not dry enough, so we walked out to the end of the fishing pier and watched a man land a huge catfish. I’m no judge of fish weight, so the best I can tell you is that it was almost as long as the guy’s leg. We’re talking big. Not that I would have eaten it, of course. As I told The Boyfriend, there are planes in that lake. Lord knows what chemicals are floating around.

After that, we inventoried everything that was still soaked (sorry about your wallet, babe), bought ice cream from a vendor with a pedal cart, and walked around Montrose Harbor. Too many cool boat names to remember. This boat, though, outclassed all the cabin cruisers and copycat yachts in the place. The Saint Barbara--handmade, beautiful to look at, and they’re going to sail her from Chicago to Ireland. I wish I could find a better picture for you.

The whole day was the break we needed—from work, from the city, from worries about our friends and family, from an apartment that seems like it will never be fully unpacked, from this stupid 9/11 report that I can’t stop reading even though it makes me cry…from just everything.

So that’s where I’ve been. I’ve also been here, working on (God help me) my second blog. Because I didn’t want to drive everyone crazy with yap-yap-yap about dieting and carbs and whatnot. How’s it going? Except for the fact that I hate my scale, only semi-tolerate my food diary, and have developed a Balance bar addiction that will probably require intervention by professionals, it’s great. The water, I am drinking it, and I’ve eaten more salads in the past week than I did in the past two months. On the other hand, last week I dreamed that I was being chased by a homeless man…who was wielding a giant stalk of broccoli. Like it was a club. Make of it what you will.

And don’t bother singing “stalking broccoli” to me, Dana Carvey-style. Someone else already thought of that.