My mind overflows with memories of skimboarding. When I was a runt—growing up in South Florida—a mediocre rain shower would blanket many roadways and swell beyond the bounds of strategically placed swales.
If you are unfamiliar with the term “swale,” it is a strip of land between homes or office buildings and the streets that provide their addresses.
The beauty of a soaked swale was that it usually possessed a grass-covered impact zone to soften the slam of a skimboarder taking a tumble. Avenues of asphalt lurking beneath a thin sheet of H2O easily could shred skin or snap bones.
We seldom fell. Getting pitched from your gliding perch, however, often resulted from a strike on the board’s belly. Unseen rocks, discarded car parts, misplaced or jolted pavers were frequent culprits of the crash.
So, occasionally, our pastime drew blood. It was a small price to pay for the great fun had in the midst of a downpour—or what many people mistakenly called “terrible weather.”
Well, all I have now is a mind full of such days with neighbors and great friends. But that is enough. As the years disappear like roofing gravel down a drainpipe, however, I worry my memories may fade and rob me of the ability to reminisce about the glory days when I was soaked and satisfied.
The lesson: skim and grin as long as you can.