My toes sink into the coarse grainy sand and stick to my skin.
And the wetness in the air that forms dewdrops on my arms doesn't help.
Ahead of me the ocean roars and I wonder why people say "ocean blue" when it's actually green, the color of sick kid snot, and tastes about the same when it seeps in your mouth.
Not to mention the stinging when you forget you can't open your eyes under water. It's the same sensation when I use the wrong contact lens solution.
"I hate the beach," I moan but my family drags me here anyway for spring break.
My mom reads on a chair, slowly sunburning. My brother attempts to surf over waves that constantly knock him down. Dad types away on his laptop. Vacation is just work with different scenery.
Mom says I don't have to swim, it's fun just to walk along the edge of the water and hunt for sea shells. More like step on them, I think, as their rugged edges cut my feet. I'm too afraid to pick them up after one incident with a crab.
Occasionally a sea breeze goes by causing the sand near me to whip my legs and sting, leaving tiny red scratches behind. I vow never again to buy that Yankee Candle scent.
A whole week in "paradise." That's where we came.
And it's only day one.
I hate the beach.