First, Dave’s place is absolutely beautiful. It’s about 3 blocks from where we stay every year, on the other side of 12 (the separator road) and is just truly lovely. It’s not a huge McMansion, and he doesn’t have much in the way of furniture yet, but damn, the kitchen setup makes me drool, and he didn’t skimp on tiling - it is amazing what a different upgrading tile designs makes.
Saltwater fishing. Cool as shit. This is the first time I’ve ever done that. My background is pretty much all bass fishing. Very, very different from surfcasting. Bass fishing, you bait up, cast out, troll, wait a bit, troll, wait a bit, etc, etc, until you’ve pulled in your line and it’s time to cast again. Surfcasting, you cast, set your line and then crack a beer, kick back and watch the lines. Seriously, after we cast the first set of lines and set them in the racks, I was sitting there thinking, “What, we just leave them there? Why aren’t we trolling?! WTF??!?” Then I cracked a beer, kicked back and watched the lines & moonlight, and decided it was a fantastic way to fish. The phrase “fish or cut bait” doesn’t apply to surfcasting - you can easily do both, rather than one or the other.
Did the night fishing when we rolled in - got in about 2AM, had a near full moon and full tide at 3-something, so fishing it was until the sun came up. Very, very fun. Then hit the surf again early Wednesday evening, still no bites, but totally fun.
Later Wednesday evening, we got an introduction with the Southern Shores PD, who were exceptionally cool, and honestly, really didn’t have to be, and the widows & orphans fund or benevolent society or whatever equivalent they have will get a couple nice donations this year. They could have hit us with drunk in public & open fire citations, but didn’t. Seems that you can’t even do beach fires in the off-season… Dave was next to the dune steps looking through a woodpile, muttering to himself (this after we’d already started off a decent little fire, and I was waiting for him), and looked up and saw two folks in uniform standing on the steps… Fortunately, he’s not an idiot and looked up and said, “Gentlemen…” I think our luck with the police officers was a combination of a) off-season and b) not being jackasses. Apparently as they escorted him down to where I was with the fire, he was super, super polite, and they asked him the name of his lady friend (cue Cops scene here, “Um…um…her name is Crystal…Crystal Chandelier…I think…maybe…but really, I’ve known her for years…) I’m at the fire, getting nice and warmed up and I hear, “Cindy, we have company” and I look up and see that the “company” has mag-lights and there is a damn good chance that they don’t have beer considering the tone of his voice…
So, I stand up, dust off the sand as best as I can, and pray they don’t confiscate what we’ve brought along with us to the beach, and go with handshakes all around. (Cause you can’t really go wrong with a truly polite introduction.) Granted, we don’t have the kickass double casked single malt scotch* I brought along, but the tail end of the Glenlivet single, two rock glasses and what would have been a lovely beach fire. So, they ask us to please put out the fire (easily done with simultaneous apologies all around), then freak out when they realize I am dousing the fire with sand while in a pair of Tevas (I was careful, I kick sand well, there are no burns on my feet - Girl Scout training in action.) and one of the officers wouldn’t let me do the final stomping, even as I gently protested saying, “It’s OK, it’s our fire, we’ll put it out, you don’t have to.”
Yes, we had been drinking, I won’t even begin to deny that - (booze on the beach is not illegal) we drove sober the block and a half to the beach, and then broke out the scotch and the two ice filled glasses ready to go. (Bad, bad, bad, but we were going to stumble back to the house at the end of the evening anyway cause it was so close, and he has a parking permit that wouldn’t get the car towed.) The police officer for whom I sort of became his charge kept asking if I was OK, not in the “is the scotch going to make you puke on me” kind of way, but more of the “are you really with this guy and he’s not giving you ruphies”** kind of way and I reassured them several times that yes, I was honestly with him and it was all good, to the point where I could give his address and everything, which I think finally reassured him that I was indeed there of my own free will. Of course, once the fire was doused, he told me I could pick up our things (namely the open container of single malt and 2 glasses) and that was the moment where that one little brain cell in the back of my head fired off perfectly and I looked at him and said, “OK, if I touch this bottle, I’m not going to get in trouble for something else, am I?” I could just see an open container citation for touching it (even though it’s technically OK.) He laughed and said, “I swear, you can take your stuff with you, it’s really OK, you just have to walk home and not drive.” So not a problem.
I *do* appreciate the fact that they were looking out for me to be sure, but it was also kinda funny, mainly because we really *were* there together and of my own volition, but apparently looked underage when they got to me… My name and address is now apparently on file with the SSPD, cause they asked if I had ID on me, which of course was back at the house, cause who takes their pocketbook for some time on the beach? Told them, “I can give you everything except my actual drivers license number cause Virginia tossed the SSN as identifier and all I can tell you off the top of my head is that it starts with a ‘B’” - they were very cool and said it was OK. That and I appreciated the full on double take when I gave out my DoB. :) Dave still thinks they were just blown away by the fact that he had a pretty girl with him that actually drinks single malt scotch. Hell, I can live with that, too.
Dave is eventually going to have a firepit in his backyard. I have suggested that when it is good to go, to have a barbecue and invite the local PD for a legal fire.
The kayaking the next day was downright anticlimactic considering that the CG didn’t show up while we were out on the water.
Not that having a run in with the cops is necessarily a “great” thing by any means, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been out and just been bad. Not that a beach fire in the off season is cutting edge dangerous by any means, but just doing that little bit of tossing caution to the wind (which granted would have been $100 in fines, tops, and we weren’t endangering anyone else, and if we were, we wouldn’t have done it) is a ton of fun. I hope isn’t reading this and thinking, “I am SO forwarding your name to the Fairfax County cops as someone to keep an eye out for.” ;) To be honest, “What would Kit do?” (WWKD) did go through my head as we met our new friends. I think we would have gotten the fire citation, and a friendly, yet stern reminder to not be dumbasses in the future, and been told to walk our asses home.
* Balvenie 12 year Doublewood.
**Dave said later if the “OK, we’re dumbasses and really sorry” defense didn’t work he was going to go with, “Look, I’m trying to nail this chick down there, help a guy out” approach, LOL.
