Yesterday was incredibly windy. It was one of those marvelous winter days in Vancouver where the sun shone golden on a fresh snowfall on the mountains and you had to lean forward and fight for every step if you were going to try to walk into the wind. They said it would be blowing near 70 km/hr on the beaches.
What better day for an outing? I decided to take a few hours and enjoy the evening before my improv class.
I drove down Oak Street and took in the views of downtown, nestled between the waters of False Creek and the spectacular North Shore mountains. I made my way a little farther west and parked just at the foot of Granville Street. I walked halfway over the Granville Street Bridge, past bundled up pedestrians scurrying accross the bridge, doing their best to get out of the wind as fast as they could. I took my time, hair whipping my face, hands freezing, and laughing at the absurdity of what I was doing. I soaked up every golden reflection on apartments, every whitecap, every kayaker making their way back in (kayakers?!?! In this weather? They had outriggers, for heavens sake! Gotta love Vancouverites). I headed to the beach to watch the waves crash in and see the sun sink into the ocean. I had to squint as I approached because of all the sand blowing off the beach. It blew past the logs on the beach, making the sidewalks look like desert dunes. I ended up with sand in my pockets, sand in my hair, sand in my socks. I even had to pick sand out of my lip gloss.
I walked out to water's edge, took down my ponytail, stretched out my arms, and twirled. The wind roared, the waves crashed, and the snow on the mountains turned pink as the sun began to set. I worked to control my body against the wind. The only thing that mattered was that moment.
Around and around, hair in my face, salt on my skin, twirling.