Was one to remember. Ocean Beach was aswarm with tourists and natives at play as early as the late morning. Although, we didn’t venture out until a little after lunch time, one could only presume this was the case given there wasn’t an ounce of space to be had – unless you wanted to snuggle up amidst the beached kelp and the sand fleas they harbored. Gross out.The reason for our delay was my struggle with the guacamole (thankfully the picco di gallo turned out): the day before, Park had purchased four rock-hard a’cado specimens that were in no shape to be converted to a shape-less mass, let alone be eaten. Although he insisted it wasn’t worth the trouble, I persisted and came out on top with a dip that was edible, but only by me (and that was because I made it). Unfortunately, before the avocado ordeal, I managed to rub the juice from the peppers and onions in the PDG under my nose. The events after this can only be described as a sensory experience of the worst sort – I can recall for certain that my face was on fire. Much to Parker’s amusement I rushed to the loo, and proceeded to the tub where I showered my face with cold water, fully clothed. Tears began to stream down my cheeks instantaneously, and it was after Parker realized that these weren’t born of joy, that he was on hand to provide aloe gel, and profuse amounts of strawberry yogurt (with fruit chunks intact), that things began to simmer down. Needless to say my face was completely red, and I looked a hot, hot mess.The beach was overgrown with folks drinking under their shady canopies, children building soon-to-be-demolished sand forts, and the odd bbq billowing smoke whatever which way. It is funny how people leave to escape the confines of their concrete grids only to sardine-pack themselves together in closer proximity than they would ever dream of off the beach. It was all a bit redick, but also very hardy for the most part. We clamored to find a spot and finally settled on a rejected patch of sand which seemed to serve as walkway to the masses, despite our best efforts to fortify our space by laying out towels (and my flip flops for good measure). It’s quite remarkable how good people are at ignoring you, even when you’re 6ft4 and practically unmissable. The party beside us consisted of an elderly African American woman, her daughter and grandchildren. They began to feel quite agitated quite quickly, and rightly so. I learned that situating yourself by a massive pool of water does not preclude your right to not wanting to get wet! When the manfriend disappeared for an inordinate amount of time to boogie board, and the excitement of watching our neighbors swat away oncoming traffic wore off, i decided to make my own way into the ocean. I guess I wanted to get wet after all. Eventually I located Parker, who succeeded in dragging me like a shipwrecked plank out to where the “good” waves were. After gulping down more saltwater than was due, I insisted that I board from where we were. Within 10 seconds I was back on the shore. At least I didn’t have to battle my way against the current to get there. That evening, marshmallows and margaritas in hand, we walked down below the pier to watch the OB fireworks. From our vantage point neighboring shows were to be seen, but even though they were noteworthy in their own right, we learned quickly that nothing really beats front row seats (unless you’re in a cinema, in which case it sucks to be you). I dare say it was even romantic. That is, until I managed to emasculate Parker with my superior marshmallow chucking skills: many onlookers will vouch for me when I say I hit several folks dead on the head – it made me laugh like a 4 year old child, almost enough to pee my pants. It really was a splendid time.

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