Member-only story
The Simple Sardine
A situation where size does not matter
The sound of the waves, the feeling of salt on my skin, and the smell of grilled sardines in the tropical air. This describes a perfect summer day for me.
Before moving to Southern Spain, my beach memories were few and far between. As a child, short dips in ice cold Lake Michigan would leave us blue lipped and shivering. During university years, we would drive to Puerto Peñasco in Mexico, or San Felipe in Baja California. With nothing more than a sleeping bag to protect us, we would fall asleep under the stars on the long sandy beach.
I did not recognize my beach addicted inner self until I moved to Granada, Spain. My addiction is serious but I have no plans to seek help.
At the age of 18, my daughter is yet to understand how I can be on the road for days on end and arrive home with an insatiable desire to go straight to the beach. This is a necessity for my body. It is my cleansing and healing place. The air, the water, and the food.
The first time I sat with my feet in the pebbly sand, with a cold beer in my hand, I lost all grasp on reality. In Spain you might say, se me fue la olla. I lost the pot.
