Sunday was a fine Father's Day, and a fine day to spend at the beach in Port Stanley.
To be sure, getting away was like stuffing a cow into pillow case; awkward, bloody, full of cursing, and it pisses off the cow. But, we persevered.
Strangely, the Port was quiet today. I guess Father's Day for other fathers means not having to do shit. Go figure. Anyway, let's survey the beach essentials.
Buckets and shovels for the wee ones?
Large, UV denying umbrella?
Cooler full of organic fruits and veggies (sorry Mackies)?
What the fuck?
I've seen people pull sleds worthy of a polar expedition to the waterfront at Port Stanley. I've seen enormous fat men hurk Coleman coolers full of meat to the beach. But, this is the first time I've seen someone so committed to getting their smoke on that they would bring a hookah. The Nubian hotness and her Persian friend stood guard over the pipe while a quartet of douchebags failed at throwing spirals with a football (don't bring a football if you can't throw it) and swearing up a storm, much to the entertainment all and sundry.
And they used Lake Erie water. Does that add to the high? Does the jet-ski effluence act like a spice? Aren't you afraid it might ignite?
I have never understood the mindset of the beach smoker; "Sun gives cancer on the outside, so I best take care of the innards".
I plan on constructing a rudimentary still that produces a throat-searing cola. And taking it to the beach.