After a fajita dinner, I carried a Tommy Bahama chair, a book, and some ice water down to the beach. The sun hung three-quarters of a sideways hand above the horizon—yes, I actually measured like that—which meant I had about twenty minutes until sunset.
I waded out onto a spongey white sandbar and plopped down. The water felt like bathwater fifteen minutes in: warm, not hot, not cool. The waves rocked me back and forth on my bum like a toy boat. A couple waves splashed my face, but I didn’t care. From so low, my gaze sliced straight across the horizon. Any fish that jumped landed right in my sight line, and it felt like I had a judge’s angle on their distance. If only I’d had a tape measure.
If you’ve seen Life of Pi, you might recall the scene where the boy, starving in his boat, suddenly finds a school of fish leaping chaotically into it. I thought of that when a large group of white mullets launched out of the water just feet from me. For a split second, I panicked they’d hit me. They didn’t.
Eventually, I scooched back toward shore and started digging with my hands, shoveling out big pools of wet sand, hoping to find the tiny clams—pinky-finger size—that burrow lightning-fast when disturbed. No luck. Instead, I uncovered three sand fleas.
If you remember from our trip here a few years ago, Florida sand fleas are nothing like the Washington coast’s. Up there, they’re just tiny pencil-eraser-sized jumpers—annoying but harmless. Here, they’re the size of your big toe, armored with helmet-like shells that cover their whole upper half. Their legs tuck in, and when you set them down, they dive headfirst into the sand, gone in two blinks. I’m not used to them—their speed, their legs, the way they tickle—so I can’t help but squeal like I can’t handle them. Because honestly, I can’t.
We have two nights left. It’s much quieter now that Tim, Annaleigh, and Hudson have gone home. With our group of nine reduced to six, there’s less stuff, fewer bodies, and just… less. I welcome the change.
For now, my brain feels emptied out. Time to turn back to Jimmy Carter’s An Hour Before Daylight: Memories of a Rural Boyhood. I knew he was a country boy, but his writing—the way he pieces together memory and detail with intelligence and insight—surpasses my expectations.
Thanks for checking in.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 