Summer is a capricious old maid in this neck of the woods. She’ll twirl her skirts at you for the longest time and then dance right past you, light-footed, out the door and you’re left to wonder if you’ll hear the ringing of her toe-bells again. Then she taps you on the shoulder, kisses you full on the mouth, and pushes you hard into the sea. When summer pushes, you let yourself fall.
With the promise of proper, honest-to-goodness heat last weekend we reached out to a bunch of friends and crammed the lot of us into David’s car. We’re blessed to have a beach nearby, a lake-beach, but I still think it counts in full because the lake used to be part of the North Sea. And let me tell you, it was glorious.
Dutch water is not clear or pristine. Clay and muck and god-knows-what; hold your nose and try not to drink any when your friends dunk you under. And if you do, by mistake? Take revenge. I’d just bought a waterproof case for one of my cameras; basically a plastic zip-loc envelope with a glass port for the lens and a perverted rubber tube for your finger, and I got damn good value out of it.
Little pleases the simple, and we are simple folk indeed. A frisbee and some tennis balls served as our entertainment (plus, it has to be said, a bottle of prosecco and my secret hip flask of quarante-y-tres). We rebelled against social norms, blazing an avant-garde trail of next-generation water foolishness by playing catch with the frisbee and a ball simultaneously, or even, when we succumbed to decadent hubris, two balls. I know it’s a shock. I hope you were sitting down.
And we got just a little bit wet, too.