So here we all are, piled up in our respective parts of Daytona Beach in preparation for Josh's graduation from Embry-Riddle. Well, he also commissions in the USAF, which probably makes this twice the deal. It does if the requirement for a saber is any indicator.
Mostly, I've been hanging by myself, running along the shore, breathing salt air, and otherwise gathering my energy for the coming huge crowds of people. There'll be some hell to pay for not spending every afternoon with the ex-in-laws who talk loudly all at once while one or more TVs drone with some inane football game, but part of the benefit of being an old fart is the simple ability to say “No, I’m not doing that.”
Don't worry. They won't get it. They never did.
However, Josh is on the ball, and he is planning Death on the Beach for us tomorrow morning. It'll involve sandbags, running, and what he calls statics. No, I have no idea. I just know I'll have sore muscles soon despite multiple four mile jogs down the beach.
I’m looking forward to this. There won't be many more opportunities to sweat with him, and truth be told, I'll be slowing him down substantially when we run, but he'll oblige, just as he always does.