Beach cart

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It’s not that I’ve been lurking on the sand in New Smyrna Beach looking for Max and Mariel. They’re kind of hard to miss. Everyday after lunch, they walk a couple of miles north near Flagler Avenue and have a drink at a waterfront bar. After that, they walk back home in the surf. Given the walk is about 40 minutes each way, most everybody on the beach sees them some time or another.

One day, I was surprised to see them and another couple sitting on sand chairs under a canopy set up near the dune crossover by their home. I walked over and said, “I usually don’t see you two sitting still.”

Mariel leaned over to Max and said, “That’s the one who was talking about my shoes the other day.”

Max said, “Seems harmless.” Then he stood, held out his hand and said, “Max. My wife Mariel and these are some friends visiting for the week. We thought we’d just hang out today.”

I shook his hand, “Falafel Jones. You’ve brought a lot of gear. How’d you get it here?”

Max pointed to his beach cart. “No matter what you decide to bring to the beach, it shouldn’t be a lot of work to get it there.”

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