Where the Wild Things Are

We were informed that the room padded with wall-to-wall mats was occupied and wrestling practice was canceled that evening. IMG_20151002_182039924_HDRIMG_20151002_184730049 Older bear’s usual wrangling was not heard—instead screams of jubilation because instead of technique on the mat, they would perform drills on the sand. Just beneath the land of breathtaking crevasses, they raced until the biggest one in the gang, impishly stirred up a game of tag. Heels digging into the cool, wet sand, hip-deep into the surprisingly warm evening water, even coach let up his guard just this once. After all we are flashing shadows, barely footed to catch our breaths and the wilderness of the ocean recoils the toughest of us into our penitent and pint-sized realm. IMG_20151002_184222538_HDRIMG_20151002_184003677IMG_20151002_183947149_HDRIMG_20151002_183936955_HDRIMG_20151002_184456574_HDRIMG_20151002_184208222_HDR The stink of seaweed instead of an armpit, the thrashing of the waves instead of toughened bodies, the dew from the Pacific instead of perspiration from the pours of adversaries were all espoused cravings from the norm. My favorite time to bask on the beach is when dusk creeps into the scene. The sky is most dramatic, the water the warmest, the children the giddiest and parents grateful for making it through another round. Usually I stare trance-like beyond the horizon and dream, but tonight is a special night with an extraordinary amount of giddiness. Happy frolicking wherever life may lead you.     IMG_20151002_185336911IMG_20151002_185056875_HDRIMG_20151002_184705639IMG_20151002_184937991_HDRIMG_20151002_185026779_HDRIMG_20151002_184623152_HDR

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