When I lived in California, winter didn't end until mid-June, when Spring/Fall rolled around, literally rolling through the streets with the fog. And even then a day at the beach meant sweaters and blankets.
It was only February, 16th as I laid on the beach in a bikini. The air was a bit breezy. I did occasionally pull my towel over my shoulders to sheild the cold air. But it was still February and I was on the beach. Only in Florida.
There were five footballs around us, most being thrown obnoxiously close to our heads and towels. Two girls in alternating swim suits (pink bottoms, black tops, black bottoms, pink tops... you get the picture) threw their football with exceptional lack of skill as they flung their hair side to side. A few tourists in sweatshirts fed the seagulls, much to our chagrin, and we laughed as the birds flocked the surrounding area. A guy on a unicycle motioned to one of the mix-matched bikini girls for the football, which proceeded to knock him off the unicycle with a weary "Ohh!!!" and thud.
The beach was packed. It was the day of the Breast Cancer Awareness National Marathon. There were pink flags everywhere. Some dude had created a three-story bicycle (use your imagination, it probably comes close) and was wheeling it down the sidewalks. Walkers made their way across the soft, cool sand. The board shorts were out. The surfers cozied up against the peer. The folding chairs were beginning to make their indentations into the edge of the continent.
And Floridians were welcoming the warmth of eternal summer. Just another day at the beach... in February.
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