Wet foot, dry foot

Wet rocks + treadless sneakers = bad start to the morning

Grabbing our travel coffee mugs and a tennis ball, we drove Otis to Castle Island today for his early morning run. We walked along the causeway leading into the harbor, occasionally dodging joggers and early-morning strollers, and tossed the ball onto the path ahead of us, sending Otis into wild sprints. After a few tosses, the ball rolled in the space between the pathway and the fence and down to the rocks below. I handed Peter my coffee and hopped the fence. “Don’t let the alligators get ya,” he laughed. A lady who was passing by stopped and said, “Actually what you need to worry about are rats down there.” Comforting!

Next thing I knew, I was flat on my back with one foot in the water. I looked up at the causeway to see a look of concern on the lady’s face and Peter doubled over with laughter. Not even showing him my scraped and bloodied hand stopped his guffaws. But who could blame him? People falling down = funny. But from now on, while visiting Castle Island, perhaps I should bring a back-up tennis ball – and a pair of dry sneakers with good treads.