...And So I Walked into the Sea

The heat starts slow when a house is as close to the ocean as we are. The air starts to taste like salty, then, as the day progresses, just before noon, it starts to get that bilge-water taste, and then, at the height of the heat, if the air is right (by which I mean horribly, horribly wrong), the air collects the muggy asphalt feel and flavor.

That's about when our apartment starts to warm up. Like any good passive heating/cooling domicile, the apartment collects the day's warmth and parcels it out when it's dark, cooling off over the night, and starting each day pleasant.

That's all well and good until the temperature tops 95, as it has been lately (really the temperature that causes this situation is closer to 80-85). Once it gets the day gets to that threshold temperature, it takes about an hour to get the apartment to a level just above the outside. It gets above because the airflow is less and our side of the building acts like a glass-box oven or a greenhouse.

But that's where the problem starts. Inside the apartment stays hot all throughout the evening and on into the night, far longer than the outside is hot and unpleasant. This is okay in the winter, or "winter" as the case may be, but when it's hot? Why must I be sweaty and gross near midnight?

In Sacramento the heat, at its peak, is oppressive in a bright-sky/heavy-sky way that a humid environment lacks. What those humid places do have, that the bone-dry Sac and environs lack, is the heat that fills your lungs and makes your clothes sticky, and you feel as if you're wading.

But the other day, as the apartment started its eight hours shift of being an oven, I grabbed my keys, put on my sandals, and started the walk down to the sea. I got to the sand and took my sunglasses and hat off, unbuttoned my shirt, and walked straight into the tiny crashing waves.

The crowd was pretty good for the day of the week and the time of day, and after six or seven steps, I was up to my waist. Then all it took was a dive. I dunked myself, letting the salty water get into my hair.

I turned and walked back to my sandals, keys, hat and shirt, feeling refreshed. Dripping wet, I shook like a puppy, put on my shirt, which stuck worse than an Austin June afternoon, replaced my hat, and started back to the apartment.

By the time I made it home my shirt was mostly dry, but my trunks were still damp, and a salty film had developed all over my hair and skin.

The apartment wasn't any cooler, but I was. 

A Twenty Minute Maneuver