We walked down to the sandy beach at the end of our street in an effort to beat the rain yesterday afternoon. An unseasonably fair breeze met us as we crested the dune, and both Victor and I kicked off our boots and socks and left them by the picket fence.
"I'm a little worried it's too cold to go barefoot," I said. "I know it's almost 60, but it's still November."
"It's warmer than Iceland in July," he said and headed toward the water.
True enough.
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