the sand trying juicy couture accessories to swallow
Life may be a toronto islands beach There is no worse toronto destination than the beach.Despite claims that hanlan's point is"Everything that is good about toronto", it is sticky and foul. For the last month i've been filling in for a colleague at the toronto star.She works very hard.Trying to keep up reminds me of the first time i merged with highway traffic.So a day at the beach sounds like a day at the beach. At the dock for the toronto islands ferry, we wait in a holding pen.Sky above, surrounded by barred walls, on a sunday afternoon it must be like a prison yard before a riot.There are only a few dozen people here:Backpacked teens, multigenerational picnicking families, a lone whitehaired man wearing a chartreuse wool jacket.They hug the walls to avoid direct sunlight, sunscreen application allowing only so many minutes of recreational island time, not to be wasted on the queue.Not only am i closer to the common man than i care to be, but we're all in an agitated state, standing still, accomplishing nothing. As the boat approaches, juicy couture tracksuits children and grown men rattle the bars of the gate.It slides open.We march forward. On the boat i have the opportunity to multitask, confronting my fears of crowds, open water and being trapped in a mental institution(Thanks a lot, shutter island). The boat deposits me on centre island.On my bicycle i set off eastward for the clothing optional beach, endorsed in an article in this newspaper as the best. The bike path takes me through what could be the set from lost:Faded 1970s singlestorey structures;Trees that spring up suddenly, blotting out civilization;Cottony tufts of dandelion seeds dispersing in the breeze, trying to impregnate everything like a cloud of tracy morgans. Save for the faint sound of small porter airplanes landing nearby, it is quiet.And as i ride i remember why i've refused to come here for decades.At 9, i stewed in the ferry queue with my mother, who i only saw on sundays, as it snaked out of the holding cell, rounding the adjacent hill.At 12, my father sent me to sailing camp, where out on the water we were boarded and thrown in the lake by the rich kids' sailing camp, an act of feral tribalism you'd have trouble believing, unless you'd ever watched little boys at play. At hanlan's point i lock up and approach on foot, the sand trying juicy couture accessories to swallow my sneakers. It has taken one hour to get here from home. Along the beach lay a couple hundred nude and seminude torontonians, as if the sand, unable to grow tomatoes or asparagus, had sprouted fannies and fiddlefaddles.There are no children. While i support everyone's right to nudity, the bros who go shirtless in april have ruined skin for the rest of us. It's almost 40 degrees with humidity, with not a cloud in the sky.And i am at the beach. I peel off my sticky tshirt, socks and pants, down to my swimming trunks.No, i'm not naked.I said i was at the beach, not caligula's rome.Hiding my money in my shoe(As jerry seinfeld pointed out, no criminal would ever think to look there), I walk into the tide. The water is a sublime temperature, clear and padded by soft sand.I get just far enough out to remember that i'm a terrible swimmer, then saunter confidently back to shore.Though i know the sand will fall off my feet as it dries, i can think of nothing else until then. I reapply a sunscreen that coats my arms and head in an unctuous veneer i can't wait to wash off. It's too bright to read, or at least i can't get comfortable.So i relax by tweeting photos of cars parked in the bike lane. Laying in the sun with my eyes closed, i begin to list the places i'd rather be:At work, completing any of a halfdozen assignments;In a cool movie theatre, drinking;At an ice cream parlour or the gym, feeling like i should be doing the other;Or on my deck at home, which is clothingmandatory. A gentleman approaches, asking about the ferry's schedule, his sunreddened View More gizmo, like a poached lobster tail, dominating the conversation. In the hot springs of iceland and japan i went nude.But in japan they carry tiny white cloths to cover their takoyaki and in iceland they giggle to demonstrate modesty.
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