Yesterday, my friend and I visited Lake Ontario Beach Park. The winds were only 25 miles per hour. Not terrible.
With no one there, we watched the choppy brown waves cascade onto the shores. Because it's my friend's bucket list experience to swim in every great lake in America, she dipped feet amidst blowing sands and bleached seashells.
After snapping some picture, we spot a lighthouse at the end of a long pier.
"Can we walk to the end of the pier?"
"Sure," I respond, characteristic of my personality as an enabler. (I like to think of my friend and I as dumb and dumber together, sometimes.)
We spot the rough waves crashing onto the near-water-level pier and think nothing of it. We make it in about 50 yards, and the waves wet our shoes and feet.
"We're getting close," we agree. Plus, the waves were only being whipped up on one side of the pier, and it was perfectly calm on the other. We continue to walk in the strong winds and brace the increasingly larger waves.
About another 100 yards in, a giant wave comes crashing over us. We scream and immediately start turning back, drenched and cold from the 40 mph wind gusts and see two gentlemen watching, then laughing at us.
We laughed at our near-hypothermic selves, drove home, showered, then ate a post-"hiking" pizza and 5-layered Talenti Gelato.