Florida: The 2nd Thing.

I was awake for too much of the weekend.

On Saturday I stayed awake to watch Battlestar Gallactica and tape them for a friend at work who doesn't get that brand of cable at his house. There were three shows at an hour a piece. Sunday, last night, was Sopranos night. So when bedtime finally came, I was ready to sleep.

Instead, I thought about Florida.

The brain is a strange thing, offering up bits of creativity unsolicited. The muse fires up, engages and keeps you awake longer than you want to. I've written complete stories in my head when all I've wanted, desperately wanted, was to get to sleep. Last night in my head, I wrote about the motel. I wrote about our pool. I wrote about the run  I had along El Mar drive. I wrote about Hollywood beach and the big surf.

I remembered what the second thing was from a previous conversation.

There were two primary differences between the beaches of Lauderdale-by-the-Sea and Hollywood. The first was that there were a lot more people at Hollywood. More people on the beach, more people in the water, more people walking the shops and sidewalks.

The second difference was the waves.

The waves in Lauderdale broke twice. The first time they break farther out where there is a bit of a sandbar and the waves rumble up, curl and then slide a bit without completely breaking. The second time, when they break for real, is where the sand comes up steeply from the water and so the waves break very close to the shore. When the conditions of tide and wind are just right, you can try to body surf them either out by the end of the sand bar, or closer in at shore.

At Hollywood the waves come in big and curl and break uninterrupted to the shore. You can ride them puppies.

The Boy and I were in the water at Hollywood while Mamma stayed on the beach. We were having a great time in the surf, catching some good waves and riding them. The way you do it is wait for a wave that's big and has a really good curl to it. You wait, time it right, and start swimming hard so you hit the curl just right. The wave takes over and you tuck your hands flat against your hips and ride that sucker like an arrow shot from a bow. If you're not quite right to the wave, or if the wave just decides to be a bit ornery, it folds you under its curl and spins you.

The Boy got spun.

The other thing you should know about the beaches in South Florida is that the "sand" is crushed seashells. When the Boy was spun in the wave, it crashed him into the sandy bottom and he came up with a collection of parallel slashes (that were really only scratches) along his chest. It looked like he had a shaving accident with a really big three-bladed razor. As always when he's hurt, he looks up at me, his eyes wide and pleading with a question and that question is: Daddy, how bad am I hurt?

I tend to downplay these things when I can. It's not that I try to be cold or unfeeling or anything like that, it's as an equivalent to reassurance. You're okay. It's okay. If I'm light with it, he won't think it's bad (when it is bad, I hold him and cuddle him and coo to him for as long as he needs). This time I turned his scrapes into trophies.

Me: Dude! You took a ride in the washing machine!

I don't often say "dude".

We showed Mommy his scrapes and told how he was rolled in the "washing machine". But that was the end of body-surfing for the Boy.

The next morning we're back in the motel room. Sportscentre is on. We're having our breakfast. In a little while we'll go out to the pool, the best part of the day for a Boy. He already has his bathing suit on and is getting ready to go. He comes over to me on the bed and presents his little chest.

Boy: Daddy, can you look at my surfer dude mark?