Memory Monday-It’s a thing…
If anyone can get injured on the first two days of vacation, it’s me. I always seem to end up with a twisted ankle, splinters, or something silly within the first two days of starting a beach vacation.
I believe it was 2006; I was in the ocean with Julie. The water was about mid-thigh on me. We nestled ourselves safely between the wave breaks. Some waves would get close, but we would just bob up in the water with them in the calm water. As usual in a story like this, there’s always one rogue wave that causes a problem. We saw it building and we knew it wasn’t going to break before it reach us or after it reached us like the others. It was going to break on us. We moved toward the beach hoping to out run the wave, but that never really works, does it? It hit us hard and as it hit us, I jumped thinking it would help me escape some of the force of the wave. When I came back down, I landed in a dip on the ocean floor and twisted my ankle.
For the rest of the week, I hobbled around trying to keep up with the family. Mom and I enjoy taking walks to the pier for breakfast and some exercise. The morning after twisting my ankle, I told her I couldn’t make it all the way to the pier, but encouraged her to go on with our Aunt Blue-Eyes. I opted to sit on the beach and just enjoy the sound of the ocean. It was early so other than a few joggers and walkers the beach was empty.
I enjoyed sitting there on the sand by myself. It was a rare moment to just be at peace with myself and hear my own thoughts. Just me and the ocean and not a care in the world. Then I spotted a man walking toward me. There was nothing specifically remarkable about him; swim trunks, towel over the shoulder, and sandals in hand. I noticed him only because there were so few other people out on the beach that morning.
He finally reached the spot where I was sitting.
“Good morning.” He said.
“Good morning.” I replied
“It sure is.” I said and thought he would keep on walking.
He stopped. “Say, would you happen to want a foot massage?”
“I live here and that’s what I do. I give foot massages. And, well, you look like you could really use one.” He said and he was right. My foot and ankle were throbbing from the short walk from the house to the beach.
“No, that’s all right. I’m going to pass on that offer.” I said hoping I didn’t sound too freaked out.
“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you, but no.”
“Ok then.” He continued walking up the beach.
It was such a surreal situation. I remember watching him walk up the beach and half expecting him to vanish into the air or oean. What real person walks up to strangers on the beach and offers a foot massage? Over the years I’ve wondered about him and still haven’t decided if he was one of the rare sensitive souls who really could tell I was in pain or if he was a creepy pervert who wanted to touch my feet because of a foot fetish.
I did really need a foot massage.