Each first weekend of May, my husband takes his Boy Scout troop camping at a state park on the Grand Strand. He reserves a site in the primitive area, where the Scouts have to pitch tents, cook over open fires, and practice/impart to younger boys the outdoor skills they acquire as they progress to the rank of Eagle. I join Greg for this annual trek partly to provide an extra set of adult eyes on the boys; but also because it's a nice mental health retreat for this beach bum wannabe.
Our usual habit is a barefoot walk of some distance (a mile or more) on the beach after Saturday's lunch. By the time supper is ready, my feet have been treated to the removal of a winter's worth of rough skin by the simple activity of leisurely strolling the sands of the Sargasso Sea and splashing it all away by my old friend, Mer (pronounced "mare," French for "sea") as she kisses the shore and recedes repeatedly. My Sunday evening return home usually includes a copious application of lotion and a pair of socks to soften up the newly treated tootsies and keep them looking decent for a little while.
Best of all--Mer doesn't charge me a cent for her ministrations! :)
