Getting used to
no-man's sand
I have to admit I’ve never been a beach guy. Not that I hate everything about the beach — just the sand, the water, and the drive to and from the sand and water. Well, OK, all those other people there also kind of annoy me.
But this year I’m going to try to get over my apprehensions and be like all the happy beach-goers: the ones with bathing suits entirely too small for their sweaty torsos, parked in lounge chairs as water shipped directly from the Arctic Circle washes seaweed over their bare toes. Because frankly, what’s not to enjoy about that scenario? Unless you don’t happen to have heat stroke.
So I figure my best way to become a beach lover is to start by convincing myself that the following things are good:
· Sand in food. There’s nothing quite like biting into a sun-heated tuna sandwich and tasting that unmistakable grit that comes along with beach eating. It’s one of the joys of surrounding yourself with sand, the other of course being the feeling that the Sahara Desert has taken up residence in your shorts.
· Sunscreen. This is a fabulous invention, allowing you to absorb an amount of sunlight that, in the pre-sunscreen era, would have turned you into a pork rind. The only problem is when it starts sweating into your eyes, causing you to bellow and rub your eyelids wildly like a tear gas victim. Oddly, they never seem to show that on MTV’s “Spring Break.”
· Sandals. I’ve always had a problem with sandals, feeling there was no need to share my toes with the world, and that whatever they had to offer society was between my feet and me. Unfortunately, that attitude results in me traipsing across the sand in sneakers and socks, sinking a little further into the dunes with each passing step, until I’m up to my neck like Ted Danson in “Creepshow.”
· Carrying lots and lots of stuff. This is particularly true on those family beach outings, when the trip from car to sand can entail potentially dozens of chairs, bags and buckets affixed to your every appendage by a tortuous array of straps and handles. This year I’m going to try to make it easier by balancing the cooler on my head, like Native American women used to carry clay pots.
Now, while I never got into the swimming or sunbathing, I’ll admit I used to enjoy reading at the beach — but that was before I had kids. Now reading has given way to chasing after my children like a seagull honing in on an open bag of Cheez Doodles. This is because the beach offers all the usual bad things that can happen your kids in a crowded public place, and throws in the added possibility of having them eaten by sharks.
Still, they do tend to have a ball there, to the point where even I get a kick out of playing in the water and lifting them above the waves — which is why I’m determined to convince myself that going to the beach can be a worthwhile diversion. If my kids are having that much fun, I can suck up a day or two of sand and surf. After all, there are plenty of worse things I could be doing.
Which reminds me ... I think I’ll wait ’til next year to clean the grill.