|Compo Beach - August 2012|
|No Riff and no Raff Allowed!|
Compo Beach in Westport, Connecticut is not technically even the ocean, but it is salty enough to feel like it when I got a mouthful. It's on Long Island Sound and is an easy stroll from the very civilized parking, near the very civilized bathrooms and showers. The most uncivilized price of $30 for parking keeps out the riff-raff, but we managed to sneak in anyway - with Debbie sort of sitting on the floor of the van and our extra car parked at a real estate office. Thank you so much Coldwell Banker, we owe you one. Actually we owe you the $30 we saved by only arriving in one car. When Ernst writes the Great American Novel, we promise to buy a beach house from you.
The weather is still unseasonably crazy good. The water was so refreshing. We could really swim, not just fight the waves. Jo and I had a swim race. I think our Olympic chances are really slim, but we probably gave the lifeguard a good laugh. I went in again just as we were about to leave. It was heaven. Some higher waves were coming off the Sound. I was all alone. The clouds were overhead. It was so wonderful. A tune was in my head. The soundtrack to Jaws. I swam my civilized Californian self back to the beach and quit while I was ahead. And while I still had my head.
1. people, or a group of people, regarded as disreputable or worthless: a pack of riffraff.