One bite — really just one whiff — and my feet are in the sand — a whirl of weeklong spring beach trips over the last thirty-five years, coconut tanning oil and Coppertone sunscreen and the honeysuckle sweetness of the first magnolia blossoms. It is sea spray softened paperback and laughter filled reunions. Dense and sweet and cold, it tastes like freedom and zero responsibilities.
Born adrenaline averse, I have never sought being in the thick of crowds. Spring Break on Panama City Beach, Daytona, or even among the throngs of rowdy teenagers close to home never appealed. My hedonistic weeklong breaks from school were about resting up and devouring novels, my stack of fiction pushed aside through semesters of full class loads and at least one job.
