Sun, surf and middle age

She's got the blanket. 

She's got the towels. 

She's got the sun tan lotion. 

I've got the keys and my wallet. 

The car's loaded. 

Let's see. 

Something's missing. 

Oh yeah. 

We've got the boy. 

Roll down the windows baby, let the wind blow back your hair. Headin' out for the sun and surf, the wild waves. We'll beam our meat selves to the chill cave of a narlie big tube. 

In a rusty '86 Honda. 

With sun block on my nose. 

At least I can imagine it's a woody with a couple of hot boards strapped to the top. Besides, it's a short ride to the Port Bruce surf, white sand shining in the late afternoon sun as hundreds cavort in slight swells that wash against the lake shore. 

The blanket spreads smoothly over the soft sand and my wife lays back with a magazine. No amount of teasing or chiding will tempt her into the water. 

"There are things living in there," she insists. "And kids go in there and you know what they do. They go in there" 

Off come my shoes. 

Hot. 

Hot sand. 

Hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot. 

Water. 

Ahhhhhhhhh. 

Cold. 

Cold water. 

Cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold. 

Back to the blanket. 

And now for the challenge every over-40 suburban beach bum must endure. At some point, the big floppy shirt must come off. At some point, the gleaming, white, alabaster flesh must be bared for all to see. 

Off comes the shirt. 

My wife shades her eyes. 

Somewhere on a distant planet millions of light years away, an alien rests its tentacles on an aquamarine rock. It's thinking about the possibility of other kinds of life in the universe. Looking skyward, it sees a sudden flash of white. 

Back on earth, I face only one imperative. Suck it in. Stop breathing and suck it in. It's just a short walk until the water covers the waist and the beach ball I swallowed the night before can pop out again. Even if I pass out and collapse on the way down to the water, folks will just think I dove for the lake and missed. 

I stop at the lake's edge and test the temperature with my toes. 

My toes! Where are my toes? 

Suck it in some more. 

The waves have calmed to a slight ripple, scattering diamonds across the lake surface. A few feet away, a young blonde woman emerges from the water, her sun-burnished body barely encased in a two-piece. 

The designer of the bikini used a high degree engineering expertise in calculating the various stresses involved in wearing such a garment. The scientific achievement that particular type of swimwear represents deserves high praise and whenever I see it, I take time to appreciate the engineering excellence it represents. 

Really, really suck it in some more. 

"What honey? Oh no, I'm not staring. I'm just admiring the engineering excellence which that particular piece of swimwear represents." 

"Honest" 

Quick, get in the water. 

And shut up. 

A quick splash and a million pores snap shut at once. The old ticker does a double take and sends a message to the brain saying, "Do that again and your looking at two months in the Elgin General critical care unit." 

Soon, however, the water seems warmer. A normally cumbersome body is unfettered by gravity. 

And best of all, the beach ball has been freed