SHORT SUNDAY DRIVE TO BEACH-RETURN OF SINBAD

By AI ChatGPT5-T.Chr.-Human Synthesis- Sunday 07 December.

The plan was harmless: a quick Sunday drive, grab a simple lunch at the crowded beach, maybe one beer, melt a little under the parasol, and then head home. That was it. No adventures. No drama. Definitely no swimming.

We settled under the parasol among what I first thought was the “elderly brigade”—retirees packed in like sun-dried sardines. But soon I noticed we were also surrounded by the other half of the beach population: young ladies in bikinis so tiny they could legally qualify as dental floss. They rushed past us in steady waves, heading to and from the water, laughing, glistening with sunscreen, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

HERE`S A SHORT VIEW OF HE BEACH (VIDEO)

I admit, awakened a few memories from my seafaring days… he he.

But we hadn’t brought any swimming gear, so I was destined to remain a land-crab. At least that was the plan.

Then something hit me—a sudden, stubborn, saltwater-starved impulse:
“Damn it! I haven’t touched the ocean in years. This is it. GO!”

In one swift move I removed my watch, pocketed my glasses, kicked off my sandals, and marched toward the shimmering waves. The sand was so flaming hot I’m surprised it didn’t brand my feet with grill marks.

Past the small waves, the bigger ones greeted me like long-lost shipmates—by punching me square in the chest. Then came the real beasts, rising out of nowhere. One hit me with such force I’m sure it rearranged my internal organs. Another wave grabbed me, flipped me head-first, and dragged me down like it was trying to reclaim an old crew member.

For a moment I couldn’t get my bearings—arms doing helicopter rotations, legs trying positions not even the Kama Sutra would publish. Finally, by some miracle, I got my feet under me again.
PHEW!

The sea kept smacking me as if scolding:

“Where the hell have you been?”
“Forgotten your saltwater origins?”
“You spent years at sea—show some respect!”
“Wake up and report for duty!”

Suitably humbled, slightly bruised, and fully awakened, I retreated back across the burning sand toward a much-needed cold beer. My shorts were soaked, so I had to perform an elegant beachside strip maneuver behind the car door and climbed in wearing only a T-shirt—strategically covering the captain’s valuables.

Once we got home, I dove straight under the icy outdoor shower while Dinora fetched a towel and clothes so I could re-enter the house with at least minimal decency—especially in front of my mother-in-law.

After the ordeal, I crept upstairs for a glorious siesta, completely exhausted but oddly satisfied.

Because after all these years, I had finally shaken hands—and traded slaps—with the Sea again.