You son of a beach.

This past summer I spent three weeks in California. The first three days, my mother and I spent in Carmel, a beach town known for it's gorgeous shores and golf courses. I remember feeling like I didn't belong there. I felt like I was completely taken out of my natural habitat and was just shoved onto some Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous special. It's true what they say about California, that it's the breeding ground for beautiful people.

We'd walk down from our Bed & Breakfast every afternoon, when the sun would just begin to thaw out any reminants of night's freeze on the shores. She'd sit on a blanket as I ventured to the other side of the beach to explore all of the possibilities of my mind. I felt alone, though I was accompanied by dozens of other beach-goers, many of them walking their dogs along the shore, occasionally freeing them from their leashes and allowing them to run through the frigid water. The smell in the air was crisp, though was polluted with the stench of algae, musty and thick, when in the presence of. Black flies darted all about, covering the seaweed and beached fish like bees on a honeycomb.

It was cold, even in July. I kept my sweater wrapped around my shoulders, even as I walked barefoot through the freezing water where it met the shore. I didn't allow myself to shiver; I had never felt so warm. Every now and then, a breeze would pass and tangle itself in my hair. I watched as birds galloped back and forth in the sky, as if they were playing tag. Mountains were painted in the background, every which way, and even manged to look snowcapped, though its impossibility is what made me laugh to myself.  I'd walk end from end, for hours, passing my mother occasionally to make sure she didn't fall alseep in the sun.

My last day there something came over me, literally. I was compelled to run into the freezing water, fully clad and I did. And when I hung my pants over the tub later that night to dry, what I thought was sand wasn't. It was salt.