Salty

I sure would taste delicious this summer, mmhmm, because I am always salted from dance dance dancing. And if not from dancing, from standing in that kitchen with my elbows in French Potato Salad, and my fingers perpetually garlicked. This week though, was a special treat, for I spent a day at a private beach in Wood's Hole, swimming (actually swimming, not just numbing, which is the Maine way) in the ocean. The waves mixed me like pie dough and the sun enriched me with vitamin D, and when I and my host and company were suitably baked, we walked to the ferry terminal and headed for Martha's Vineyard. There, the dogs there were all groomed, and the ladies and gentlemen were too, and we arrived at the Black Dog to catch our scheduled Schooner to sail out to sea. The wind was a howlin' (more than usual), so we stayed mostly in the bay, but the 90-foot ship was a bounty of interesting knots and monkey-boys who swang from the ropes to raise the sails. It was an exciting 3-hour ride, sponsered by my friend Emily's family reunion, and when I got back to camp, I was a sandy, salty salty, bleached out clam, and I went to bed and had nice dreams.