Speaking the Same Language

The transition can be tricky.

Saturday was a practically perfect last day at the beach. Blue skies, clouds of every type and temperatures that never felt unpleasantly hot would have been sufficient to ensure a good time but when you add in an ocean temperature of 67 degrees, well, it was almost like someone ordered up a fabulous finish to my week.

And while it was a two nap-day (I make no excuses), we managed a nice long walk in the morning and an hour in the ocean at low tide before deciding that what we needed was to move camp (one umbrella, two chairs) to the water's edge and finish out the day there admiring the bands of ocean colors: olive, aquamarine, sea green and dark blue.

In the laid back spirit of the day, we went no further for dinner than the local raw bar where I decimated a half dozen blue crabs while we eavesdropped on the two guys next to us, one of whom seemed bent on establishing his drinking cred.

This is what happens to me, man. With three Long Island ice teas, I'm out and with four, I'm speaking another language.

Hmm, seems like it should be the other way around.

For the first time in the many decades I've been vacationing at the beach, I got up at the crack of dawn (7:05) Sunday so that I could take my walk on the beach before having to check out at 10 a.m. Who knew there would be so many people out walking and fishing at that hour?

It's always sad closing up the cottage and knowing it'll be another year before I'm back in it. Sure, I'll be back at the beach in July, but not in this magical space. It's like a friend noted as we luxuriated in our beach afternoon, "It's hard to accept that all this goes on when we're not here to experience it."

The drive home Sunday was pleasant enough - it should be noted that while I stopped at Granby Farm Market, I did not bother to stop at Gale Force Guns - with my favorite beach radio station entertaining me with bands like the Secret Sisters and their gorgeous harmonies on "He's Fine."

The problem with being ripped from the beach and set down in the city is that nothing can replace the sound of waves 24/7. I'm a city girl and I love my apartment, my neighborhood and my town, but I go through some fierce beach withdrawal when I first get home.

To the rescue was a fellow beach lover (or should I say beach convert?) who showed up with a bottle of Nero d'Avola and a desire for conversation.

We ambled over to Saison Market for dinner - fried chicken, Bibb lettuce salad - where the patio was full and I ran into a couple of favorite beer geeks waiting for their fried chicken dinners (it was Sunday night).

We settled at a high table to admire and dissect the Virginia map on the wall until our meal came, drinking Eden Imperial 11 Rose, easily the funkiest (as in barnyard, like a good stinky cheese) tasting and most tannic cider I've had. That it was served to us by a woman named Eden was icing on the cake.

Although nothing replaces the sounds and sights of the ocean, we made do quite well on my balcony, where a steady breeze ruffled the nearby treetops and the music inspired observations about guitars and guitar collecting from the bearer of the Nero d'Avola, who also claimed to have conjured up the unusually pleasant weather to welcome me home.

If I had to come back to the city, I couldn't have asked for a better reentry evening. Seems that transitions aren't so tough with the right welcoming committee.