Beware of Flying Objects

Since I now live near a beach, I decided it was probably in my best interest to actually go to the beach.

So Sunday, I packed up a beach bag and headed down Davie and met up with Austen, his friend with a name I can pronounce but not spell and some ESL students. Their idea was to play some ultimate frisbee. I was ready for a game of ultimate nothing.

The beach was crowded as hell with it being Sunday and all, with clear skies and oven-like tempatures, although there was a breeze whipping up the waves and thus whipping up any objects that might be sailing through the air.
See, I have a particular fear. It's going to sound bad, but I'm going to say it anyway. I have a fear of balls.

OK, that did sound bad. I should rephrase that. I have a fear of flying objects...because somehow, no matter who is throwing them, they always end up hitting me in the face. And it's not just balls either. Birds sometimes dive-bomb me, and frisbees are attracted to me like a magnet. Which is why I was a bit apprehensive about playing ultimate frisbee.
Austen braves the surf

Being a good sport though, I played a few rounds until Austen's throw nearly took my hand out. Perhaps I was safer lying on the sand and taking sun. Only I wasn't. While the frisbee sailed past me at lightening speed, the wind would take it and wing it at my head. My poor hands had to defend myself from the onslaught time and time again. As if that wasn't enough to worry about, some Croatian man and his young son decided to play soccer in the middle of the frisbee game and everytime the ball would get kicked onto someone's oiled-back or picnic lunch, he would laugh maniacally. Then young shirtless hotshots decided the place beside me was perfect for a game of tossing the ol' pigskin around. I don't know if hurtling footballs at girl's heads is some guy's ways of picking them up or what, but let me tell you...it doesn't work.

There's fear behind those sunglasses

The breaking point was when the Croatian man brought out his football and decided to receive the catch by standing right in front of me. And, let me tell you, eight-year old boys do NOT know how to throw a football. After the umptienth bad throw nearly took my sunglasses out, I decided it was time to go.

Of course the wind still had it in for me. Snapping pics of the waves and people as I walked along the seawall, I was unaware of a series of gigantic swells heading my way. Suffice to say I felt like I went swimming that day, without even stepping foot in the ocean.

Apres surf drinks at Moxies with Amanda, Austen and sea-swept hair