The Walk on the Beach Where we got Caught in the Rain

Or, the most cliche hour of our lives in recent memory. 

The other day, Katie and I went for a long walk on the beach. Yep. Right out of sappy movies and classified ads, this walk. And that's just the beginning.

On the way, we thought it looked like rain, but whatever, we're moving in two months, so we need to enjoy every second of the beach that we can get. Plus, parking is free after 6:30 p.m. on Wrightsville Beach, and when you're young married people you take all the free crap you can get. 

We park in the parking lot just over the second bridge, near Access 25, I think—right near One South Lumina, the hotel. At least, I think that's the hotel's name, it's in big letters across the side of it. 

Anyway, we run across the street and onto the beach and walk all the way down to Johnny Mercer's pier. Maybe a mile, maybe not quite that far. Talking long and deep about life and God and family and work and the craziness that all of it is. Go past the pier. It's been about 30 minutees. It's great. Then Katie's like, "Maybe we should turn around." Great call.

About 15 minutes later, we start feeling raindrops. There are, literally, dark clouds on the horizon. The sun's going down. It's beautiful. 

About five minutes after that, the clouds open up and we're getting drenched. But I'm loving it, all of it. It's a warm summer shower, and I'm soaked, and she's soaked. She talks about walking faster, but I'm all like, nah man, let's just enjoy it. I'm such a cliche. But we do. We walk slow, through the sand, our feet getting sand-mud all over them. And then, just before we get to the access where we came onto the beach, I grab Katie and say, "I'm going to kiss you, in the rain, after our walk on the beach, and make this the most cliche moment ever." And then I did. 

Then I found myself thinking about this movie we tried to watch the other night. Killers, the Ashton Kutcher-Katherine Heigl romantic comedy. I say "tried" because we barely got through twenty minutes.  

Look, I've got nothing against Kutcher. I actually admire the man's ambition and, even though many of the movies he's acted in have sort of sucked, I respect his drive. Plus, That 70's Show was awesome, except for the last season, after he left. 

But anyway, Killers—so bad it actually hurt. It's like it was written and produced to pander to every women's stereotype ever. Kutch plays a spy. (Mysterious stranger.) He's ripped. (Sex-ay.) He effing speaks French, for crepes' sake. (Uber-sex-ay.) He and Heigl meet in like, Italy, or some other such ridiculously romantic European country. (Romantical.) Actually, probably France, since Kutcher was speaking French, right? (Duh.) 

On top of that, Heigl's character is recently single. She's all forlorn and mopey. Then she meets Kutcher in an elevator. He's shirtless. Going swimming, he says. She says stupid lines about keeping muscles like that maintained, and acts basically how the airheaded, helpless, and on top of it all, blonde stereotype dictates girls should act around such guys. And of course, Kutcher just totally steals her heart. Because, apparently, helping a drunk girl get naked before she passes out is a total romance win.

My point is, it was like, this impressively awful conglomeration of cliches, all mashed together into one super cliche black hole that was engineered to, not unlike a black hole, suck away part of my soul. 

I bring all that up because the cliche I lived out with Katie the other day—long walk on the beach, getting caught in the rain, kissing in the rain—was like, redemption from the life we wasted on that movie. Or something. 

Naturally, I sorta ruined it. She tried to kiss me more but because I'm sometimes often dumb, I didn't realize that's what she was doing and I was already turning and walking back toward the access. But whatever dude, I'm just stoked about having the ultimate cheesy movie kiss. I remember how way back when we were just dating—oh, we were soooo younnggg—she wouldn't even let me open doors for her. She also lets me do that now. Romance, for the win!

Anyway, we take our time getting back to the car. I'm glad I didn't wash it like I'd planned to, because it got rained on anyway, and we're about to get sand all up in there. 

The rain falls hard. Lightning strikes. Thunder rolls. I find myself thinking of another movie, this one as great as Killers was awful: Leaves of Grass. Most underrated movie of 2010, without a doubt. See it. It's on Netflix Instant Streaming right now. And I take basically any reason I can to talk about it. It's labeled a comedy and the trailer sells it as a comedy, but it's way more than that. It's ... just watch it. Trust me. (Here's Roger Ebert's take on it.)

Anyway, back to us: Before we get to the car we stop in at Wings. We were going to buy a towel, but they were like, ten bucks, so instead we just dried our faces and heads on sweatshirts already hanging in there.

Does this make us terrible people? I don't know. Or care. They're sweatshirts. They'll be okay. Besides, it was one of the best hours of my life. 

And yeah, it's cheesy, cheesy as hell, but you know what, it's okay and even good to have some cheesy moments with people you love. It's better than sitting on a couch with them watching a stupid movie, after all.