This morning the wife and I drove down to Dana Point to rent a kayak.
It’s, truly, the coolest deal ever: $30 for an hour of paddling through the marina and (if you choose) into the
wide-open Pacific. There are sea lions aplenty, all sorts of birds, a warm breeze, a sense of wonderment.
Just. The. Best.
Anyhow, we parked, walked into the rental space—and in front of us in line where four people. A dad. A mom. Two kids. None wearing masks. And it was bullshit, because everyone else inside was masked. The employees were masked. The other renters were masked. But not these mug cracks, because—hey! MAGA! Or, hey, It’s a Free Country! Or, hey, I’m a stupid-ass mofo!
Whatever the case, the rage rose through me. All I wanted to do was chew these people out. My instinct was to do it loudly and clearly: “So, just so we all understand, everyone here needs to wear a mask, but you’re exempt? Why?”
Alas, I said nothing.
I should have. I really should have. But the kids were young, and there’s something line-crossing about humiliating Mommy and Daddy in front of their tykes.
So I walked away. Enraged.
