Kindness of Strangers

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

It’s the dog days of summer. All over the northern hemisphere, the tourist season is winding down, and the start of the school year is just around the corner. But for us, summer is just beginning. When we planned this trip, we intentionally decided to follow the sun for eight months, for better or worse. Summer days that are normally spent sitting in air conditioned office buildings have been replaced by hours of daylight walking. After six weeks, my skin has turned a deep, tawny bronze. The hairs on my arms have been bleached a shocking blond color. I can’t wear my foundation anymore because the color is too pale; I would look ghoulish. I haven’t been this tan since I was a kid.

When I was little, my dad and I would spend nearly every Saturday at Salt Water State Park, a small beach that was near our home in Seattle. I splashed around in the waves for hours, taking breaks for slightly gritty hot dogs lined with entirely too much ketchup and impossibly sticky salt water taffy from the neighboring snack bar. Meanwhile, my dad spent an entire summer pushing mighty boulders from the sea floor to make the swimming more comfortable for me. By the end of summer, the bottom of the beach was a perfectly sandy strip, and I was the color of molasses.

Being at the beach the past five days has brought me back to that time in my life, when summers were pure fun. I had forgotten how much I love swimming in the ocean, the vastness of which scares so many people, but which I find exhilarating. Trade the clear, warm waters of the Mediterranean for the bracing chill of Puget Sound, and I could be eight years-old again.