I grew up on the beach, frolicking in the white sands in slow
motion, in a tan bathing suit and Jamaican braids. Oh wait. That wasn't
me. I was the one in the bikini perpetually up my ass, tripping on dead
jellyfish on my way back from the snack bar to my towel, where I would
lie for hours empty of thought, concentrated fully on the status of my
tan, which for the record was never very impressive.
Ah, yes. In those days I didn't even have to pack a towel. I just
stripped down to my bathing suit and sprawled in the sand, face first.
The beach was a place to relaaaaax. But only during the off-season.
Summer was a different story. As soon as June hit, families would march
down the sandbar in hoards, swarming the beach like flies on dried
sea-kelp and as the day progressed I would inch myself farther toward
the bluffs, where I could have *some* quiet.
Of course one could never fully escape the sand-kicking toddlers.
"Ughrrrrr," I mumbled. "Can't you keep your kids on THAT side of the checkered flag? Please?
Fast forward to.... Today when the beach is once again beneath me, but there is no such thing as "relax."
The beach has become a weekly activity. One, because it's
way too hot on the Eastside and although it takes a lot to get me to go
west of La Cienega, the promise of wet sand between my toes as opposed
to the firey shit we have to endure at our local playground is enough
for me to devote entire mornings to packing four HUGE tote-bags of
snacks, towels, changes of clothes, diapers, swimmer diapers, swim
trunks, graham crackers, cherries (de-pitted), water bottles, empty
water bottles for ocean water, extra socks and sweaters (in case it
gets cold), mounds of wet-wipes, SPF 1000 Sunscreen for "little faces"
and 749 sand shovels. Not to mention the great fun of bracing the 10
Freeway.
Read More...
