Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to the shore we go

"Love," I said to Joe last week, " we have to do something exciting...I need some new writing material. I've been reduced to writing about our dead flowers. Soon I'm going to have to write about can openers again."

So Joe -- even though he once paid me a very nice compliment on my ability to write about can openers in an exciting manner -- suggested we go to the shore for the weekend.

Here on the East Coast, we do not go to the beach. We go to the shore, meaning the shore of the Atlantic. Our favorite spot on the shore is Cape May, New Jersey, which is the farthest point on the shore from our home. We drive right past 289 perfectly fine little towns and beaches to get to Cape May. I do not know why. We just drive until we run out of road, and then we stop.

We were anticipating our usual routine at the shore: hauling 2 tons of food, reading material, and various beach paraphernalia down to the water, which we did, and relaxing in the warm sun, which we did not do. At least, I didn't. This particular day there was what might politely be called a sandstorm, and there is nothing relaxing about being in a sandstorm. Joe struggled to get everything protected by the umbrella, which greatly reduced the wind, but the sand insidiously crept into every little crevice of everything we had, including our ears.

Every now and then Joe would say, "The water's coming up closer." I would look and say, "Pfft, it's nowhere near us." Of course, I did not have my glasses on when I said this, not that they would have helped anyway, as they were caked with sand.

Now, the writer of Genesis tells us that when God created the sea, He placed boundaries on it and said, "This far shalt thou come, and no farther." That afternoon at the shore, a rogue wave came out of nowhere to defy its Maker and swallow our towels, beach chairs, umbrella, coolers, sandals, and everything else we had. I saw it just before it hit and ran, screaming, grabbing whatever I could, including the people next to us, who were more startled by our screaming and running than they were by the wave. And no wonder. After the wave receded, we looked around. We were the only ones the wave had hit. Everything else, and everyone else, was perfectly dry, as if our personal monsoon had never happened.

We retrieved our bedraggled belongings and retreated to our hotel room, safe from all wind, sand, water, and other hostile elements. I looked helplessly at the pile of mush that had been our stuff, then said to Joe, "Writing about can openers isn't such a bad thing, is it?"