Friday, August 27, 2010

Jellyfish Soup

Monday . . . 
like mosquitoes descending upon a marsh for "Happy Hour",
   the jellyfish moved in.
Somehow, my boys had determined that they were not the "stinging kind". 
Somewhere in my memory banks, I know that I once learned how to tell the difference,
   but (and, I will blame it on the sea air) my memory was failing me.

Since no one appeared to be affected by the jello-like creatures,
   I decided to trust the boys' assessment. 
In fact, beach-goers of all ages were coming up with ways to use the abundance of jellyfish
   as forms of entertainment. 
Out of nowhere, "jellyfish catching nets" appeared,
   scooping up globs-full of the gooey creatures, at a time. 
Sand buckets became "jellyfish pots", waiting to receive the jellyfish for making "jellyfish soup".

I have to say, as a child, I was quite resourceful and creative with discovered treasures at the beach,
   but it never occurred to me to do anything with jellyfish, other than AVOID them.

My youngest son took on the jellyfish problem as his personal responsibility to save the human race.

How sweet, I thought.
When he was little, he used to race down the beach,
   chasing seagulls, sheer joy on his face.

Now, he is . . .


How proud I am.

I would have to say that the most disturbing sight on the beach, that day, was two grown men,
   standing in the ocean. 
They were using a stick, as a bat; however,
   instead of hitting baseballs, they were scooping up the jellyfish,
throwing them up in the air, and whacking them with the stick, as hard as they could,
sending jellyfish "pieces" flying.

I think I would rather be making jellyfish soup.  

Instead, I followed my adult instinct, and avoided them as much as possible,
   until I unintentionally and unexpectedly . . .

STEPPED on one.

It felt cold and slimy, as it squished between my toes.

I shrieked, and simultaneously lifted my knees up in the air,
   as if doing my own version of a Scottish folk dance . . .

all the way back to my beach chair.

Fortunately, my boys were right.

It wasn't the "stinging kind".


  1. I'm glad you didn't have to ask someone to pee on you. (Or do it yourself.)