Thursday, July 2, 2009

LIFE MAY BE A BEACH, BUT A BEACH IS NOT LIFE!


Observations on Georgica Beach after yesterday's paddle the full length of the pond. I was in the M14, and pulling the boat up on the "gut" (the strip of sand that separates the pond from the ocean) I opened a bottle of water and ate a delicious pasta salad that was left over from the previous evening - a dish of pasta, chicken and gorgonzola. My daughter's wonderful creation!

I then simply relaxed on the beach, pondering the possibility of paddling along the Cove to the east. And started "people watching." It was priceless!

1. A group of four young twenty-somethings who passed in front of of me. One pleasantly greeted me, and I him. And another said, "I can't believe someone could just sit on the sand like that. So dirty."

2. Two women of "indeterminate age" (and how often have i used that phrase?) walking to and fro, both wearing flowing, technicolor beach shrouds. I couldn't make out the conversation, but one, the one in salmon pink, kept on insisting to her companion: "But Cape Cod is too out there! How will I be recognized? I won't go anywhere where I'm not important!"

3. I was rueing the fact that there was no pasta left when a couple deliberately approached me, and the man simply said, "Hi! Nice boat!" Now there is nothing more demoralizing than the sudden realization that these good people were drawn by my kayak, and not by me. I can totally understand. The M14 is a very serious boat. Long, sleek, professionally designed and equipped for open water, someone once reviewed it as "sexy." Unlike its owner in this particular encounter, staring out at a boat on the Atlantic, and probably having traces of gorgonzola on his chin. "Thanks!" Was all I could say, and they both touched the boat, almost religiously, and left, hopefully satisfied. I shook my head, and wiped my chin - just in case.

1 comment:

Saintly Ramblings said...

I was going to comment that I thought the M14 was a British motorway - but then I looked it up, and there isn't one with that number!

Blast - another fine rib-tickler consigned to the dustbin.