It's too hot to go to the beach

 

Friends called. Picnic on the beach at Mushrif Park, 4PM, be there. So we grabbed our handy-dandy, prepacked beach bag and wandered off on our usual Friday meanderings: sale at Marina (separate gripe about how they operate), Mall of the Emirates for a little play for the little one, lunch and relaxation for the husband creature, and groceries for our bbq on the beach.

Neither of us had planned to swim. The Petit Pitame, on the other hand, had woken up that morning, heard the news that the beach was on our adgenda, and prompty whipped out his swim trunks to wear under his blue jeans. Cause he's that kind of kid. I don't like wearing a bathing suit on the public beaches here. Too many lonely men veering towards me in the open sea. Very disconcerting to look around and realize you're in a ring of men who have loosely congregated around you. And i'm no blonde beauty, neither. My husband didn't feel like swimming for whatever reason husbands don't swim. I'd worn a skirt; I could wade in the shoals with the kid. No problem.

It's becoming beastly hot out. Too hot to go to the beach, not that anyone in cooler climes could possibly imagine that. Too hot to swim?

But there we were, on the beach at the end of the day, sweating bullets, lugging picnic supplies through the sand to our friendly encampment. The husband complained that he hadn't brought his suit: "Didn't you save me from myself?"

No. But the beach bag did. Lo and behold, a plethora of bathing suits were to be found. Even one for my mother. And an extra one for the kid. And one each for silly mothers and fathers who think they can go to the beach and not swim.

So there we were, sneaking one last dip while the light lasted: a vague pinkness smeared across the sky above the Gulf told us where the sun had gone. I turned back towards the beach and smiled in gratitude... there was the full moon rising above the beach, cresting the palm trees, bringing waves and sweet nightfall and a refreshing breeze.