Over the highways and thru traffic, to Grandmother's house we go

So I got a speeding ticket last Saturday. Genius! I suppose I've had it coming, being a perpetual leadfoot, but I would have felt better had I been pulled over for actually speeding, not safely traveling faster than the speed limit along with the rest of the freeway. Semantics, I know, but it was kinda unfair and definitely a bummer. Plus it just gives me one more thing to hold against the noble race of highway patrolmen. And before that thought continues I am going to drop it and float on the sea of calm that is my inner Shannon (can you tell that yoga is really kicking in?)

I did get to go kayaking with my Grandpa in Huntington Harbor, a maze of waterways lined with houses, docks and boats moored in the gently lapping water. My nose got red, my shoulders hurt, unaccustomed as they were to paddling, but it was lovely. The water was cool and salty, the air warm. I beached my kayak and swam from dock to dock, feeling the life sliming and crusting its way up the wooden supports. I jump off the bridge spanning the mainland and these manmade islands planted with houses grandiose and quaint, screaming until I am swallowed by the water; beneath the surface my feet sink into cold, bottomless mud. I paused at the top on the outside of the rail, leaning back into its concrete support, and looked down at the water. Nervousness creeps up my throat; the water glints like obsidian in the sun, hard. I jump anyway, without another second to give to my jitters. It's either now or wait until the fear saturates you; no one wants to climb back over the rail and creep, yellow, back to the waters edge.