Life's a Beach

In order to beat the heat, headlines across the state are offering up ways to keep cool. Many hole up in air-conditioned rooms. I go to the beach.

The ride takes about 30 minutes on a good day…in January. In July, it could take as long as what amounts to earning a masters degree. But, no worries, my gas guzzling SUV has air-conditioning.

It's not the drive that takes so long but negotiating the parking lot on I-95 which extends as far south as Newark, NJ. Cars are loaded with coolers, beach chairs, those annoying beach umbrellas, and the even more annoying children who insisted on bringing shovels, pails, a backhoe, snorkels, Boogie Boards, and Jacques Cousteau.

So, all of the cars are bumper to backhoe on the interstate. The air conditioning is on maximum, the children are well hydrated, the cooler is well…empty, and Jacques Cousteau is in his Speedo, speaking French, which he does well (the French, not the Speedo).

Everyone is having fun beating the heat out there on the interstate. However, this could have been done in my driveway, which would have been better. On the interstate, I can’t just leave my car and walk the short distance to the bathroom. If I left my car while parked on the interstate, to walk the same short distance, I’d end up at the beach. Where, of course, there are no bathrooms close by.

Once at the beach, if I’m lucky enough to find a spot that hasn’t been excavated or occupied by someone else’s Jacques Cousteau under an umbrella, I set out my empty cooler, spread out my blanket and sweat. While sweating in my very cute bikini, I notice I have developed a certain magnetism. I am attracting all of the sand being flung by all of the three-year-olds who forgot their shovels and want to use mine. OK, maybe not all of the sand because some of it they want to take home in containers, like their bathing suits. This special ‘take-home’ sand was put in these containers using the shovels I let them borrow.

By now, I am sandy I need to get rid of it (the sand, not the three-year-olds…well, not all of them). I venture to the water, blistering my feet on the ‘take-home’ sand that fell out of their ill-suited containers. I don’t want to think about which might be worse, the blisters or the sand – but I suppose I just did. Dodging flyaway umbrellas I go into the water as far as my knees when someone yells, “Shark!” and I realize that it’s me. Now, I am saying bad words or praying – I’m not sure which because I am speaking French.

Looking down, there is a creature about three feet long that very much looks like a shark. The one from Jaws. But, not to worry, Jacques Cousteau is there and shooing it away with his umbrella, saying things like, “Sh-eaux, sh-eaux”, or what ever it is the French say when taunting sharks with umbrellas.

Jacques assures me that this is ‘just a sand shark’, and I believe him. So, speaking French again – because I don’t like consonants, I ask Jacques, “Is it dangerous? Will it come up on the sand for which it is named?”

Jacques, tucking his umbrella in his Speedo with authority, looks at me like I’ve lost my mind . I simply (but painfully) look at his Speedo (…and he thinks I’m nuts).