I miss the beach in the summer. I miss the foggy mornings, the cool temperatures, the salty breezes. Moving from the beach to the foothills, foothills that are famous for scorching summer temperatures, made the transition bumpy. I wilt in the heat, and I come alive in the fog. Summers here have been a challenge, all twenty-three of them.
But not this week. Monday night, Rex and I waited at the train station for Madelaine, and we froze in the chilly wind. This morning I got up, and the high fog of a coastal summer was in my foothill view. No salty breeze, but it was chilly enough that I grabbed a sweater as I ran out the door. A sweater. In July. Up the hill we drove, above the fog, and when I turned around to come back, I could see the layer of gray waiting. For a moment I could imagine the ocean breaking against the sand just beyond the clouds.
My beach fix will be satisfied soon, but this morning it took all the discipline I could muster to not keep driving west.
I miss the beach in the summer.