Spit Again

'You know, my son started out just like that & now he does it all the time.'
'Ha, yeah... I figure he'll figure out not to do it facing the wind soon.' 'It's a disgusting habit.'
'It really is. I do it all the time, especially when I'm in a mood.'

La Florida, as named by Ponce de Leon...Spanish for 'Place of Flowers'

...where I born & raised. Where the bulk of my clan continues to reside. A place I only visit or vacation to.

Timmy Toes marks a line in the sand that covers the well-worn-anyways walkway that leads from the crushed periwinkle parking lot to the decades old Tiki Bar....with our rooms sprinkled in between the two.

Armed with thick slices of ice-cold, hot-pink watermelon, an afternoon breeze & a slow-setting sun, we all plopped our bigs toes right on that line. Seeds tumbled, spewed, sped & shot out of our mouths. Tiny black teardrops from the heart of the melon... bounced, skipped, skidded & plopped their way into the sand & seashell shavings that would later pay host to the various vehicles of the nightly guests.

Objective? Spit your seed the furthest.

Three seeds into it, I sit out...I really have no desire to spit & three slices of watermelon later, the boys finally give, announcing the winner.

20+ feet was the record and Skinny had it by a long-shot.