Summertime at the beach is an interesting time. On one hand, you have the beach RIGHT there. But, on the other, you’re working all the time so you never really get to go there.

On Saturday, I finally got to go to the beach and it was awesome. I swam in the ocean and ate sand as the waves crashed over me. My skin got a little tint of brown and my nose turned a nice rusty brownish red. I got some tan lines on my back, and started the long process of getting my legs to heal from all of the flea bites.

This is a weird summer for me, though. Every other time I’ve been living at the beach in the summer, I was in my late teens or early 20s. Suddenly, when I go to parties at houses that I used to hang out at all the time, I don’t know people and they all seem so much younger than me. I mean, I’m never the oldest person there, but when the average age is 21, suddenly being 26 seems on the old side. All of these kids are still in college, and I’m making my life out here.

But, it’s ok. Those parties are with people who work for a company I worked for a long time ago. They have a huge summer staff and a smallish winter one. So, I branch out and try to meet new people and go to different parties.

Suddenly, I go from being the oldest one there to being in the youngish age group again. It feels good to hang out with people from 5 or 6 years my younger to 15 or 20 years my elder. It feels natural and right. We find common bonds across generations, primarily the love of the ocean and late-night bonfires. Someone brings out a guitar and suddenly there is music floating across the waves. The waves crash against the sand in the darkness of night, and we all lose our shoes and run to the edge of the sand, allowing the salt water to soak our shorts and skirts as we kid around and threaten to push eachother deeper.

Summertime is a good time. I’m glad it’s here.