The recent period of abominably cold weather set me into escape mode, and I found myself fantasizing about being some place warm, like the beach…

First, my wife and I pack everything we'll need for the day. Slowly the anticipation of the day ahead degenerates into worry about forgetting something, and there's no pleasure like worrying on your holiday!

The trip takes at least ninety minutes because we are not near any "good" beaches, and my wife notices—too late to turn back but early enough to be grumpy—that she didn't bring any of her cds to play in the car, and she's stuck listening to my cds, and why don't I ever remind her to bring cds, and I obviously just do it because I don't like her cds.

Finally we're on the long street that runs parallel to the stretch of public sandy beach, and we cruise the entire length of it three times at 15 kilometres per hour because the beach is already packed full with joyously frolicking public. When we do find a spot, there's no parking available anywhere near it, so my wife hurriedly jumps out and stands by herself in the spot to "save" it for me (what a sight that is), while I park the car far away.

I enjoy the scenery as I walk to our spot, but when I get there my wife has a headache because she forgot her sun hat in the car. In order to keep our great spot on the beach, I have to carry all of our stuff in several trips, so I get her hat on the next trip.

Meanwhile my wife sets about clearing our spot of broken glass, litter, and weeds. Once all of our stuff has arrived, we set up our recliner chairs and our towels, sit down, and have some lukewarm drinks.

We begin reading our books, hoping to be soothed by the lapping of the waves. The waves are drowned out by the screeching of small children, the cavorting of frat boys, the cackling of teenage girls, and the yelling of parents.

My wife is a speed-reader, and finishes her book, then has to go find a convenience store to buy a cheap romance. While she's gone, an acquaintance from the city meanders by and begins talking to me about all of our concerns back home. A distinct pleasure, for sure, to be reminded of all these things on my holiday, but this person is the slowest and most laboured talker we know. I am near tears when my wife arrives, and the person suddenly and mysteriously takes leave of us. We need not fear having peace enough to concentrate, though, as our neighbour begins playing a rousing "top 40" radio station replete with advertisements on his large portable stereo. We take a stroll.

The sky is clear, the water is clear, yet, as I get hit by a flying disc, then by a flying toddler, and my wife gets sunburned and cuts her foot on a broken bottle, the reason we came to the beach becomes somewhat foggy. We return to our spot to find our first aid kit stolen. We look at each other wordlessly, and I walk back to the car. Traffic backs up as I park on the street beside our spot while we load up, and off we go.

Poof! Here I am, back in Wintersville, happily listening to jazz music and sipping a scotch on the couch next to my wife as we read and pet our nice, soft cats.