Skin Tight

A smart woman makes the most of what is likely her last beach day of the year.

It didn't hurt that the weather was picture postcard perfect and the ocean bathwater warm. The younger woman contingent who had provided so much entertainment value and opportunity for mentorship the past three days gradually drifted back to their rightful homes, leaving Pru and I to go at it a deux.

The last day means doing all the vacation things you can.

You read. With Ralph Abernathy's autobiography finished yesterday on the beach, I moved on to Hilary Mantels' Man Booker Prize-winning "Bring Up the Bodies," an historical fiction about Henry VIII and Jane Seymour and an unlikely thing for me to read (it was a gift and came highly recommended).

You nap on the beach. We'd been in bed by 2-ish the past couple nights (which could be considered reasonable compared to the up and comers who stayed up till 5 a.m. every night) sleeping in till 10, but there is nothing quite like sleeping on a beach towel mere feet from where the surf is rolling in.

It's also a great way to tan some last bits before the pallor of winter sets in.

You happy hour on the beach. The couple who are staying in the house next door do the same but they do it in plastic chairs up by the gazebo while we begin ours much nearer the water. A flash of brilliance results in us moving the party into the ocean with our acrylic wineglasses. Which leads to...

You spend as much time as possible in the ocean. Pru isn't much one for water. Despite having been here a week, she's yet to enter the pool or hot tub. Fine, fine, neither of those interest me, either. But the ocean? The source of all sensory pleasures at the beach? Yes, my dear, we go in that.

And somehow, I managed to convince her that once in the water, there was no good reason to come out except for occasional forays to refill wine glasses. Wine is drunk mixed with salt water and occasional sand and no one cares.

Before long, we'd been smacked with waves from every side. The water was warm and the tide receding, so we kept inching farther out. We talk about visiting Bermuda and summer salons with rotating guests.

We compare mountain and ocean vacations and Pru makes the pithiest analogy. "Would you rather taste like a salty oyster or the flippin' Appalachian Trail?" The imagery is vivid.

Our fingers go prune-y. Pru's sunglasses get knocked off by a wave, never to be seen again.

Better at the end of vacation rather than the beginning.

You take all the vacation photos you've been meaning to all week. If you're Pru, you take pictures of your friend sleeping and sitting on the beach with wine. If you're me, you take them of your friend in the ocean because no one who knows her will believe it if you tell them.

But because you're a good friend, you do not take a picture when, heading out for fresh wine, she falls on her ass, ending up covered in sand. The memory of her cracking up and gritty will have to suffice.

You enjoy one last evening on the deck facing the ocean. "I think we need some Ohio Players," Pru says, as if it's obvious, making it happen on her little boombox. "Love Rollercoaster" competes with the sound of the surf as we dance around the deck.

By the time we get to "Fire" - and that's "fi-yuh," no "r" involved in pronunciation, it's probably better that we're the only ones around. No telling what questions the younger generation might have had if they'd witnessed this dance party.

You go to sleep with the balcony door open, the sound and smell of the ocean along with your partner in beach crime the best possible sleeping companions on your final beach night of 2015.

Pru and I, we'd really rather taste like salty oysters.