When my pleas for the rescue boat and/or a search party were said out loud instead of just in my head, I knew I'd gone more than a few steps too far.
It was the Chocolate Monkey or maybe my sister-in-law's fault, really when she replied to my question, "How far do you think it is to that point over there?"
She shrugged, guessed three miles, and went back to her Rum Punch. She was busy arranging a beach pizza party and I decided to test her ability to judge distance on the beach. So off I set.
My plan was to rest my left leg, which has some sort of a tear or pull deep into the muscle. I'd go slow, I reasoned. I'd be fine.
There are many problem with a walk on the beach when one of your legs is wonky.
1. Your leg is wonky.
2. You have to walk back with an even more wonky leg.
3. Rescue boats work in the water not in sand.
4. If your potential rescue party is more Donner than Blitzen, they ain't coming to get your lame ass. Even if it's literally lame.
5. A short walk on the beach will give you a nice, smooth polish on the soles of your feet. A Bataan death march will flay whole -- and quite necessary -- layers of skin.
6. Once your protective layers are gone, your feet try to build new ones. (Not so)Fun fact: calluses are born as blisters.
7. Your non-wonky leg will eventually remember it comes in a pair and start to be wonky in solidarity with the other one. Who knew legs are Democrats!?
Jen's estimate was off by two miles. In the bad direction. But I had no business walking one mile down the beach so really it was my own damn fault. Or maybe the Chocolate Monkey.
Today I will rest. As long as, you know, I can get the Chocolate Monkey off my back.