Above & right:Holmes Beach, Anna Maria Island 2009
Sand was part of my life as a child. Summers were spent going to the beach with our folks or our friends, on church outings or school field trips. Sand would get in our clothes, our socks, our shoes, our hair, under our nails. We tracked it everywhere: the car, the house, the beach house we'd rent. Our parents fruitlessly tried to eliminate as much sand from our bodies as possible before allowing us in the house. Outside showers, hoses, towel wipe downs, stamping of feet were typical presumptive sand terminators. It never worked well because if we'd been swimming in the sea, our bathing suits were invariably full to the brim with sand and it was always in the crotch. I remember getting in the shower and taking off my bathing suit and tons of sand would come pouring out of the crotch. This may have been caused by the excessive amounts of sand in the Pacific Ocean or from rafting the waves, later body surfing and/or sitting in the sand to make castles, dig a hole, bury someone, etc. I have never really found out.
The greatest feeling in the world is that first step onto a beach, when you remove your shoes and let your toes wiggle in the sand or let the water wash over your feet, leaving sand in its stead. Ahhhhh.
Sand is a great exfoliator, is a forgiving jogging surface, and cleans the feet up as it downsizes callouses.
Sand is one of my favorite, most looked forward to substances. It always means the beach. I am not a desert person!