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With a smile on my face, I walk up to feel the ocean temperature.
It’s warm, but there’s a big problem if I want to swim: the waves are way overzealous. Also, now that I’m paying attention, I see a red flag nearby and a sign below it that says, “Swimming not recommended today. No lifeguard on duty.”
Oh, well. Soaking in the rays might be all the relaxation I need.
Spreading my towel, I sprawl on it, close my eyes, and pretend that I am also sitting on a couch… which is when I drift off to sleep.
Why is my mouth so crunchy, why am I so hot, and what is that smell?
I open my eyes and find myself face down in the sand, with the towel covering me like a blanket, instead of staying under me as a loyal beach towel should.
Crap. I have enough sand in my mouth to make a small castle.
Feeling very ladylike, I spend the next few minutes vigorously spitting. Next, I look for some source of water so I can rinse my mouth and figure out the source of the weird smell. If it’s well water again, I might just use it to rinse out my mouth, smell or not.
Nope. It’s not sprinklers, but something weirder. A cow is standing nearby, and the smell is coming from a patty it’s made. And yes, I do mean a regular cow, the type that goes “moo,” not a sea cow, as in a manatee, an animal this area is actually famous for. Thanks to the coloring and the sad eyes, she looks just like a giant Basset Hound, only without the droopy ears, and with horns.
I rub my eyes, which is a mistake because now they also feel sandy. Could the cow be a hallucination brought on by heatstroke?
But then why is the couple on that couch looking at her too? I saw them before I fell asleep.
More importantly, could the cow give me some milk for a mouth rinse?
I cringe as the scene plays out in front of my eyes: I walk up to the cow, grab her udder—which is basically a boob—and jerk it into my mouth.
Yeah. No, thanks. Maybe if I had stayed in school and become a veterinarian like I’d always wanted, I’d have experience with cows and would be able to do something like that, but not with my pet groomer accolades. The cow would kick me in the head—and be right in doing so—and then I would die and become one of those “only in Florida” stories on the news.
Belatedly, I recall the bathroom I saw near where I parked, so that is where I go to rinse my mouth.
Except a sign over the sink says, “Danger. Non-potable water, do not drink.”
Hmm. Clearly, you’re allowed to wash your hands with this water, so the big question is: would rinsing my mouth be closer to drinking or handwashing?
Fuck it. I cup some water and rinse my mouth, then my eyes.
Ah. So much better. Hopefully, I didn’t just get pink eye and cholera.
I return to my towel just in time to witness a mustachioed Bull Terrier-looking dude depositing the cow poop into a big bag, the way dog owners do for their charges.
Weird. The Bull Terrier then leads the cow away—before anyone gets the chance to ask any obvious questions.
My theory is that it was one of those Kobe beef cows—no relation to the famous basketball player. Allegedly, those cows are treated like royalty, receiving beer, massages, and probably pedicures too. If any of that is true, why not throw in a stroll on the beach?
Pondering this question some more, I sit on my towel and admire the wavy ocean.
Hmm. Despite the no-swim sign, there are surfers in the distance.
In fact, one of them even has a Golden Retriever on the surfboard with him. How cute is that?
I sigh wistfully. Reagan would have a blast if he saw this. He loves videos of dogs doing all sorts of fun things, from singing to typing. He’d also make a good argument for going for a swim… and not being a chicken.
Maybe I’ll just walk in until the water is up to my knees. That way, I can get my face wet and cool off a little. Surely that should be safe.
Gingerly, I approach the water and wade in until my ankles are wet—which is when a huge wave comes out of nowhere.
Whoosh!
My world spins as I’m knocked off my feet.
