The World According to Oops

My wife and I decided to head to the beach over the weekend as a kind of Father’s Day getaway.

Provided St. Joe Beach or St. Joseph Peninsula for a few hours between loads of laundry and vacuuming could be considered either a day at the beach or a getaway.

In any case, the sun was bright, the sand gorgeous and the water inviting.

We figured while the “Coast is Clear,” as the Tourist Development Council’s slogan holds, and no oil was on the horizon, get it while you can.

As stated on these pages before the oil will eventually come but right now it remains to the west and the postcard outside remains vividly beautiful – provided one can avoid self-inflicted wounds.

The hour or more spent on the beach, mostly in the water, was thoroughly enjoyable and therapeutic, but that was all before the wheels came off, or literally the feet.

First it was the keys.

I protect my keys like a mother bird, never letting them out of my sight or grasp. I consider them, sickly a psychiatrist might diagnose, my lifeline, my entry into my home, place of work and car.

There is some kind of solace in feeling my keys in my pocket or in my hand that surely traces back to childhood and some trauma involving the swiping of my plastic key set by my older brother or sisters.

At least that is my story and I am sticking to it. Sorry, Bob, Stephanie and Martha.

In any case, despite my wife’s repeated urging – common sense oozes from the woman’s body – to keep the keys in our beach bag I insisted on keeping them tucked in the pocket of my trunks.

They were deep pockets, I insisted, no worries. I wasn’t going to be frolicking enough to fling them from my shorts.

And after 45 minutes or so of swimming and playing in the ocean I was proved undeniably an idiot.

As we prepared to leave, I rose from the water and felt my right leg and, sure enough, no keys.

My wife figured it was a joke for a few seconds and then came a look over her face as if she was speaking to one of the two- and three-year-olds in her pre-K program, disbelieving that my developing brain could not follow simple instructions.

I have a stubborn streak, I admit, but who is going change that at my age.

In any case, after a perusal around the beach and our bag it was determined that my keys were now owned by the not-that-deep coastline and I began to formulate how I could get in my house, in my office, in my car.

Yes, there are extra keys for two of the three, but my keys, those are my talisman.

My wife, meanwhile, was pondering safety, considering if my keys were identifiable and whether some boogie was going to come creeping in the middle of the night with a latch opener.

This reminded me that I had my CVS Pharmacy discount tag on the keys, the only identifiable feature, and God bless that bright red sucker because no sooner had I thought of it that I noticed a red flash at the bottom of the shallow water.

And sure enough there were my keys. I slammed my foot on top of them so they would not move and my wife commanded I dive and I did my best impersonation of one of those cliff divers in Mexico and when up I came, my keys were in hand.

I felt vindicated, the beauty of stubbornness over practicality a victor.

A feeling that was entirely obliterated by the walk back to the car.

I had also stubbornly insisted as we were leaving for the beach that my sneakers would be fine, no need for flip-flops or my sandals.

This was no problem on the walk to the beach as I simply peeled the shoes and socks off along the walkover en route to sandy heaven.

On the way back, however, with feet sandy and wet feet no self-respecting sneaker would accept, there was no way the shoes were functional and so I had little choice but do as the cavemen did.

One problem – the surface of the walkover at 3 p.m. was roughly the temperature of a broiler oven with hot dogs sizzling underneath.

My wife urged me to stay where I was, on the sand, and wait until she reached the car, turned it on and put towels on the seats.

And, naturally, I completely ignored the advice, waiting until she was at the gate and started across the crossover figuring she was well in front.

She would have been had I not felt like I was walking across the surface of the sun.

Within steps I was in full sprint across the walkover only to encounter on the other side a stretch of dirt hot as coals and trimmed with those small sticker plants.

I had transitioned from hot coals to a burning briar patch.

My feet probably felt as if they would just as soon have remained behind on the beach.

I reached my pain threshold at the car, where my wife and I had a brief wrestling match as she tried to get out of my way to the front seat before I collapsed in a heap on the ground.

My feet were beet red, sliced and diced, with blisters already growing.

So, during crazy times, my wife and I were able to get some much needed beach therapy for an hour or so this past weekend. It was a swell Father’s Day.

I should be up and walking in a day or two.