I’m Dutch, through and through. My parents are Dutch. Their parents are Dutch. Their parents came to America from the Netherlands via Ellis Island. I’m sure I’m made up of other bits and pieces too, but for the most part: I am Dutch.

This means I am pale. For several years – from about age 17 to 26 – I did not want to be pale. I wanted to be tan. TAN. So I’d lay out in the sun with neither sunscreen nor a second thought about skin cancer. (Nor premature aging, for that matter.)

I’ve since wizened up. Now, for the most part, I stay out of the sun as much as I can. Moving to Chicago/The Land of Real Summer has meant more time spent at the pool. But I’m the crazy woman in a wide-brimmed hat with enormous paparazzi-esque sunglasses and a thick layer of 100+ SPF smeared across my face. I wear a long-sleeved rash guard with UV protection to every pool excursion. I do as much as I can to shield myself. I’m slightly more tan than when I arrived, but I’m still pretty pale (and proud).

Then, late this afternoon at the pool, I saw this guy. He was reclining on a lounge chair. His hands were clasped behind his head, and the sun shone orange and pink and bright on his face. And he let it. Eyes closed, deeply and with purpose. It was like he was meditating under the rays of this god. He looked so peaceful and free. I felt very weirdo in my standard pool garb. And maybe even a little jealous.

It made me think of my friend Rebecca, who after being laid off from her day job in 2008 packed up her shit and moved to Sayulita, Mexico. There, for three years, she lived on unemployment checks, daily surfing at dawn, and too many good memories to even try to count. There, she worshipped the sun. It guided her heart every day, and I’m not sure she even wore sunscreen.