I love going down to the beach for summer holidays. I love the crowds. I love to look at the beautiful people and the strange people who come out in droves. I love the odd bikes, scooters, hogs and classic cars that cruise down the Strand all day. I love to walk down to the pier and head out to sea, farther than any pier on the West Coast will take you.
I love to body surf the well-formed waves, pay homage to the Surfboard Graveyard, and photograph the sun as it drops from view into the middle of the pier, and then, below the surface of the water. I love it even if I sprain my ankle [again] while rushing toward the breaking surf, slipping over sandbars and down into hidden holes in the sand. I love it even though our next door neighbor throws a party every July 4th that results in about ten fights breaking out and spilling over into our front yard. I love the fireworks that they shoot off the barge for my enjoyment. I love watching the huge crowds start to thin, trudging slowly to their cars as I contemplate the ten foot long path to my front door. I love falling asleep to the sound of the pounding surf.
However, I don't like waking up the next morning with the swollen ankle. I don't like being unable to walk without a limp. Despite my general lack of concern for fashion, I don't like having to wear my unfashionable laceup boots so that my ankle can support my frame. And I definitely don't like spending the evening with ice wrapped around my frozen foot.
If I was the Playboy centerfold this month, those would be my turnons and turnoffs.
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