Sand everywhere
I haven�t been on a private beach since 1991. Enjoying that kind of luxurious isolation is very freeing. So much so, in fact, that only a few short hours ago, I found myself on my back on a beach towel, worshipping the sun in all my pasty whiteness with no one else around to see (mock?) (be disgusted by?) me. I was able to ease into displaying my body to the elements the way one eases into a hot bath.

As I lay there, digging my toes into the damp sand, my eyes covered with a t-shirt and preventing me from reading anything, my mind finally began to slow down and do the speed limit for once. I listened to the lapping of the waves against the shore, the cry of gulls and the whine of distant Seadoos. I imagined how much I would resemble a toasted marshmallow by the end of the day, but my mind, in all its infinite wisdom, managed to place a small picture of a cooked lobster in the upper left hand corner of my thoughts. It would later turn out to be the more accurate predictor of the two.

I lifted my shirt up, revealing a torso that hadn�t seen the sun�s rays in over 30 years. It�s so white and vast, I don�t know why I expected an hour and a half in the August sun to achieve anything. (I should have worried more about it reflecting the sun and attracting rescue planes). I must say, the feeling of the breeze rushing over my exposed belly button was exciting, as I cannot remember the last time I did or felt something for the first time.

I managed to take around a hundred pictures on the digicam, ranging from seascapes to Kate at the park to Gran eating her very first s�more at the age of 86. I worked on my macro abilities with a sumac growing along the edge of the yard and once again failed miserably at taking any sort of recognizable picture of the early morning fog.

I�ll leave you with one that makes me truly happy. Long live the cottage!

Posted at 6:42 p.m.