Today I went to the beach. I am not designed for the beach; I am too skinny, too hairy, and too pale for the beach. Now I am blotchy and tired.
But the beach was fantastic. The Pensacola beaches had been talked up, not just by Mission Control but by two guys I met at the hotel breakfast in Nashville. They were x-ray machine installers, ex-service, and they gave each other a lot of grief. But they said I should go to the Gulf Coast beaches; they said the sand was white, the water warm, and the waves gentle.
They were right. It was a beer commercial beach. It was the kind of beach that theme parks seek to replicate. The water was turquoise. I felt conspicuous; I felt like I stood out like a sore thumb. But I shook it off. I stood in the water and let the waves lift me up and I thought to myself, "This was an excellent idea." Then I went and sat at a bar and grill and had a salty dog in tribute to a stylish friend.
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