Ridiculous Boyish Joy
Two and a half years ago, an old photo reminded me of a hike I’d taken outside Seattle with my family when I was 12.
From the first steps down the trail, I was determined to find a lake, river, creek, pothole, or watery hollow by any other name to jump into.
My sister and I eventually found a shallow pond of liquid ice, covered with a froth of dissolving life. My juvenile heart filled with ridiculous boyish joy as I trod on needle-sharp sticks to submerge my doughy body and begin my descent into hypothermia.
15 years later, I wondered when I last felt ridiculous boyish joy, and whether I had already become a grownup forever.
Later that day I asked my flatmates if they’d be interested in biking to Ocean Beach before work to build a fire, get in the ocean, and attempt to make pancakes. To my surprise they all said “yes,” and the next morning, despite clouds and wind and rain and inedible pancake-shaped carbon discs, we found that ridiculous boyish joy was not yet forbidden to us.
Icon by Sergey Demushkin from the Noun Project