I sit in a squatty, stunted lawn chair, its bar legs gagging the mouth of sand it sits upon.  I look out towards the grey horizon and watch fingers of foam crawling up the shore’s spine, massaging it rhythmically. It is mesmerizing, this sandy, foamy ocean massage table.

This is vacation, but I am pulled by an inner ocean of current that flows towards the known, the routine.  I seek out the condo’s laundry room, following the fresh linen and detergent scent until I find the balmy humming haven.  There is water here unclaimed by nature’s tide, and it will rid my towels of the sneaky sand that hitchhiked from the shore.

Vacating the quotidian is easier said than done.