Posts
for Lou Ann
THIS is the place where the vast ocean finally meets the continental shelf, where the ceaseless waves lap foamy upon the endless shore, where white sand gets paved brown by lunar tidings, where the wet licks the dry – this is the place where woman and man come to frolic, relax, burn.
It is the beach and these are its people.
Nighttime wipes this canvas clean, the high tide delivers, the low tide reveals, and each dawn is a fresh revelation. Footprints erased, debris blown away, it is the beginning of yet one more beach day. The gulls gather to search for scraps, for strands of rubbish while the new sun gleams over the old water, and the clouds are few and threadbare, they appear timid and apologetic and quickly blow inland where they may not be wanted but are at least not deplored. Best to enjoy a quiet moment alone with the gentle breeze and the chattering gulls among driftwood and clumps of seaweed while such an opportunity still exists.
Beach people are bronzed, they are burned, they are toasted bags of crispy flesh and masthead bone that come in all shapes and sizes, but you can be sure that those with the most flesh will be the ones with the least shame when it comes to the sheer joy of sharing it all with you, with me, with the entire world. Beach people like to be loud, boisterous, they tend to kick up the sand and stir up the devil, they remain decidedly mindless in their quest for coastal supremacy and winner of today’s silliest hat. They are worshipers of the ancient star, a lost tribe of Egyptian cast-offs, merry wind-whipped castaways not caring to bear witness to sunrise or sunset from that place where gray sky melts into silver sea far across the mythical horizon. Alas, they prefer to materialize mid-morn with sleepy eyes hidden behind dark shades, beneath floppy straw hats, toting bags stuffed with necessities and so much more, awaiting the sun to reheat the goop of primordial life that congeals thick and dormant deep within each and every one of them.
Water, sweet enduring water, eternal and boundless, the seeping briny substance that saturates most of our planet. Beach people like to dip their toes into it, splash in it, kick and flail and churn in it, piss in it, dive into it, wade and swim and plunge all about it. And the briny substance gets into their mouths, their ears, their noses, it stings their eyes and fades their hair and pushes all those tiny grains of sand into places where they ought not be. Still, the beach people grin, they laugh, they wipe the sting from their eyes and yearn for the coming bleach of their seaweed hair. The seagulls gather to gawk, to laugh at the beach people, a chorus of rattling seagull jeers, a squadron of crafty shit-bombers circling the hazy shoreline skies.
The beach people pay those silly birds absolutely no mind at all.
Little boy with red plastic bucket, on a mission to create a new world in this sandbox by the sea, a sturdy castle that can surely hold back any bully tide, but by high noon he will have his lotion washed away by the conspiratorial waves and so by the time his forever creation is reduced to mere bump that hardly even suggests an earlier majestic existence his little body will be rendered as red as his bucket.
Little girl in polka dot bikini, she can be a real spoiled meanie, stands with hands on hips appraising the little boy’s creation, and she isn’t the least bit shy in pointing out to him the deficiencies, the obvious lack of closet space and where in the world am I supposed to park my Lexus? She giggles, she snorts, and then she just struts on by, she thinks she’s the sassy gal in a popular sit-com, or in a catchy hit song, she thinks the world is her own juicy oyster.
There are Frisbees to be tossed, salami sandwiches to be eaten, a little too heavy on the sand perhaps – there are unknown crannies to be uncovered and subsequently burned pink so the assemblers hastily stake their claim to a fine patch of beach – hey, this okay with you? Sure, it looks great to me – with the firm plunging of the umbrella pole into virgin white sand and from there they all fan out. Assorted beach towels, a tube of sunscreen and an almost empty brown bottle of coconut oil, an old transistor radio that still runs on three twenty-year old Ds, those batteries are rusted in there forever and their continued efficacy defies all logic, a rag ball and a purple Wham-O and a red plastic bucket with its small red shovel, a thermos filled with pop and water and dad’s cheap beach beer. So let the sun shine, hallelujah, let it blaze, and these are the days you will dream about when you are old and wrinkled and find it hard to get out of bed.
Not all beach people appear so crass, there are those who simply come in peace, to comb the beach in search of shells and other delightful surprises, to ride the wild waves by board or belly, to simply dwell within its sandcastle cathedral and bother not a soul. These are the beach people we should all aspire to be, the serene and satisfied, those well-oiled and smiling into the golden halo cast by their chum the perky sun. They are quiet, they are humble, and they never get burned.
A lone egret stands tall, rigid, rod-legged and absurdly self-assured, but when the beach people draw too close, when their greasy stink grows too strong, the persnickety thing spreads its wings and takes to the open sea in search of a more holy spot to simply strut and peck.
To peacefully strut and peck – what’s so wrong with that?
Daybreak once more and all is calm.
Be quiet now, for here the beach people come.
