The other day we were on our way to Target (for the millionth time this week) when I made a split-second decision. There’s a little seaside town about ten miles from my house called Pacifica where everyone goes to surf – I’ve never been but always wondered about it and guess what I did? Yep, who needs diapers when you can head to the beach! Woo hoo!

Except, I should note, summer in San Francisco is freezing. No, really. I can see what you’re doing as you sit there melting alongside your popsicle, shaking your head unbelievingly, because I used to do the same thing. My San Francisco aunt would passionately tell us to pack a warm hat, maybe even a parka, for our visit, and I would nod along pleasantly enough, all the while thinking, “Whatever, dude. It’s California. In summer.”

Bring. A. Parka. Puh-lease.

I also happen to live in the coldest, foggiest part of the City, which for a sun-lover like me provides something to complain almost constantly. Did you ever read the short story about the girl who never saw the sun? I think about her every single day.

For some strange reason though (misguided hope, perhaps?), I had it in my head that because people surf in Pacifica it would be warm. That there’d be sun and Alice and I would frolic in the waves while slathering on sunscreen. The drive up should have tipped me off.

It was cold enough that we pulled out the hats, and, it should come as no surprise, there wasn’t a lot of ocean frolicking going on. Instead we watched the surfers, petted a couple of dogs, and climbed on the rocks. I don’t think she minded one bit.

Strangely enough, neither did I.