Some days are just so perfect, they’re magical. Yesterday, was one of those days.
Armed with a three-day shellfish license, we figured we’d try our luck at the dock again and tied off those bad boys with the same scrumptious, bloated bait, before heading to the beach.
Upon arrival in the tiny off-road lot, we unloaded all the beachy paraphernalia imaginable and trekked through the deep, hot sand, until we found the perfect spot to spread out.
It was...windy.
But it’s always windy here and that’s why we brought kites. It only took an hour for four educated adults to put together the baby shark kite, but we persevered as a team and are now even closer despite the trauma.
We got the shark to fly, but I was more interested in the delta wing pirate kite because you can do more with it than just tie it off to your chair and continue reading your book...
Once both handles were unwound, David assisted the launch, while Steven and Nancy flew the shark and Fogarty stood by for moral mathematic support.
The kite left David’s hands, caught the wind, and within a millisecond...I lost all control.
The thing went berserk. Swooping at shockingly violent speeds in all directions, but miraculously, never crashing to the ground.
Not a soul on the beach was prepared for that level of chaos. People I truly care about were diving out of the way in terror as if cluster bombs were being dropped from above. Sometimes, it can difficult to hear upwind, but there was definitely screaming.
It was One-Eyed-Willie’s revenge and I could barely breathe I was laughing so hard. Eventually, I got the hang of it and no one was impaled so...come on guys, no harm, no foul!
Late afternoon came quickly and we returned to check the pots before the evening’s activities. And low and behold...WE GOT CRABS!
Four Dungeness beauties and one total alien monster covered in spitting barnacles. The latter had a major attitude and Hercules-like strength as it wrapped its sea-spider legs around my hand and tried to pinch my finger off. There was only one that would have qualified for keeping, but we tossed ‘em all back and headed to the stables for our sunset ride.
Magic.
We moved onto the stables and mounted our trusty steeds to clip-clopped single file through the grass-covered sand dune canyons, toward the beach.
Everyone had seemingly normal horses, except for mine, Sabrina, who was the biggest land mammal on the West Coast...she was also the slowest moving creature and not-so-much keen on me telling her what to do.
Steven rode a gem called Caesar, named not for the Roman general, but for his love of salad. Specific instruction was given to not let the hungry beast eat, but every time I turned around, even where there was no green for miles, Caesar had two feet of grass hanging out of his mouth.
Our posse trotted across the shore at high tide and rode off into the sunset.
It’ll be a tall order to top that day, but we’ll give it the ole’ college try.
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