As a professional stand-up comic, and an amateur surfer, I have this thing that if I can’t fall on my face, I don’t want to do it. When my partner virtually begged me to go visit the “tidepools” with him, it sounded about as exciting as learning how to knit. Are you kidding me? Tide pools sounded like child’s play. Do I get a coloring book and a juice box with that? I was hoping he was going to pack me a snack and maybe some crayons for what I was sure was going to be a hike-able version of one, big, yawn.
After climbing over the last of the big rocks, my eyes and heart burst open seeing the ocean with it’s candy apple blue brightness, waves crashing up like cotton candy suspended in air. I felt like a kid going to Disney World for the first time. Spotting a little rock island in the middle of yes, a tide pool, I run to it with abandon, jumping up and down like Rocky on the steps of Philadelphia. I also dance.
I’m completely freaked out by how gorgeous and thrilling this place is. Immediately I want to swim in these deep watery caverns; I want to immerse myself in these pleasure pools. Not having a swim suit on feels like the biggest mistake of my life! But that grief is quickly over shadowed by the vision of a little tiny little mountain range of a peninsula that my guy and I climb. We look back, watching Mother Ocean give that coast line a smacking that sends a wall of water shooting up, spraying fireworks of water droplets high up into the air. A grand finale that never ends. I love fireworks. And I love the tide pools. And I’ve never been so happy to be so wrong.
Yes, the tide pools are for children. They are for every inner child buried deep beneath the cynical skin of adulthood. Long live the tide pools. They will out last us all, and continue blessing every soul that gets to dance upon their rocks.