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Born to boogie board

I have discovered the answer to one of the great mysteries of the sea: why and how so many sea creatures wind up on the beaches of our great oceans.
They are trying to master the art of boogie boarding.
This is a nearly impossible feat. Trust me. I know.
On our recent trip to Daytona Beach, Virgil and I had none of our usual catastrophic car troubles, and there were no sharks baring their teeth in the ocean waters once we arrived.
I would hardly have anything to tell you had we not been accompanied by our 16-year-old nephew, Sean.
Immediately upon arrival at the beach, he ran into the ocean, spied some other youngsters deftly riding the waves on this thing called the boogie board. Within minutes, he joined in and was riding the crest of the waves, all the way to shore.
“Come on, Aunt Jackie, try it!” he yelled, in what I later thought could only have been a veiled attempt to send me to the ocean depths.
Without a second thought, I plunged in bravely. After all, nothing as undaunting as a rolling, mile-high wave has ever gotten the better of me yet. After plodding into the warm, salty ocean until the water was about waist high, I signaled the young boogie board entrepreneur that I was ready.
“Here,” he said, strapping the velcro-laced board to my right wrist, all the while looking over his shoulder for the best wave to break.
“Now, now, now! Jump, jump, jump! On the board! On the board!” he yelled.
I did. I jumped. Onto the board. I immediately tumbled off the side and into the depts of the cresting wave. I grabbed my nose, squeezed my eyes shut, and began the soon-to-be famous roll, like an aquatic tumbleweed.
Momentarily distracted by one of those, well, younger bathing beauties on the beach, Sean finally looked back at his boogie board student: “Stay on the board, Aunt Jackie! On the board, I said!”
Roll, roll, roll.
What happens is, the water is simply relentless. Just as I would happen to look up and try to steady myself, along came another wave, practically flattening me on the ocean floor, which, I might add, is never still. It undulates. I learned rather quickly that it’s best not to fight nature. Don’t even try to stop the roll with your hand, or heaven help, your knees. Immediate scrapeage. I have a scar to prove it.
After surviving a few such attempts, I would crawl from the water, feeling a lot like a drowned rat. Once on shore, my daughter, Vickie, who came in from California, would challenge me again. Only this time to the safer, yet now staid (considering the thrills to which I had now become accustomed) game of Scrabble. On dry land.
In the end, the score was 3-1 in her favor. How could she beat the socks off her poor mother, an award-winning speller and journalist?
There are a few things I would like to check in the rule book, but I can’t seem to find it. At some point during the last decade or so, the rules have disappeared from my house. Of course, I don’t mean to imply anything, but I do believe the rules have been rewritten out in California …
She also outdid me on that blasted board.
But there’s always next year.

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