Outside, outside, outside—where Geddy wanted to be. He would pound on the yurt door and, once through it and down the steps, head for the road and the beach. He knew the way after our first outing, and could walk along pointing as he went. Strong winds, blowing sand, cold ocean water, fog, bright sunshine—none of these deterred him from walking, crawling, and crab scuttling his way over the sand. He loved to squish the dry sheets of sand in his fingers and laugh and laugh and do it again. He loved to scoop up the wettest of the wet sand and fling it all over himself and anyone standing nearby. He loved playing by the creek, being wet, and watching Daddy's kite zip around over his head. He loved cawing to the seagulls. There was nothing more joyful than watching his excitement. Or than watching father and son play together. The only part Geddy didn't like was when we showered the sand off of him. So, he only got one shower and spent most of the week with sand between his toes. And in his diaper. And in his hair.
How sad to leave the sandy shores, but I'm thinking visiting every summer just might become our family tradition.
