Last night we went to Big River and built a bonfire, because Tristan said that was what he wanted to do. First we went to Portuguese beach and grabbed some poles, because Tristan wanted to construct a sweat lodge on the beach. We carried large poles up the cliff in the dark. It was dark, and the poles were large, if I haven’t mentioned that. By the time we were done, I was plumb tuckered, I tell you what. My legs had gone all collywobbly.
I actually managed to construct a pretty sweet fire using the embers from someone else’s. I was very proud of my fire, since I built it with small sticks and scrap wood, as Big River has been pretty well stripped of timber.
Then, Sven showed up with some Veuve Clicquot, and we all sat around the fire drinking it out of plastic cups. You think I jest, but here’s a sampling of those present, enjoying their red party cups:
Veuve Clicquot is pretty awesome. I can get behind it, as a beverage. It was very dry and foamy and delicious, in a way that most of the cheap California sparkling wine I have had is not. I don’t think I would drink Veuve all the time, unless I made a lot more money than I do, but it was a really nice treat. And appropriate for toasting a friend who is moving away, I think.
Here’s the start of the sweat, which I popped into in an early stage and christened the “slime lodge,” because I couldn’t breathe in the humidity and my ass kept bumping into the slimy, cold tarp. As you can tell, I didn’t enjoy it very much. But that’s ok, because Tristan did, and I lounged by the fire throwing sticks at it while he did.
Alas, as often happens with bonfires on the beach, I went to sleep rather late, only to be woken at an hour I would rather not discuss by the delivery of a propane tank and the destruction of the other half of my garden.