The last swim of the week is always such a melancholy moment. We leave the slivery-smooth water knowing that this is the last time, that there will be no more sand and no more water and no more waves. All that remains is to pack the car and drive home, a drive no longer shortened by the anticipation of the week to come.
Life the way we live it here could not be sustained; we must return to reality—to reasonable bedtimes and responsible work schedules and rational portion sizes. But oh, how we will miss our life at the beach.
Already, even before we drive away, we are plotting and planning for next year. What meals went well, what games we forgot, what week will work best. And for the next 51 weeks we’ll smile every time we think back to our time together this year, and forward to our week next year.
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