Beach, Beach, Beach

It's hard to knock a day at the beach. Most people don't have the opportunity to go when they like, I think it's fair to say. A big vacation has to be mounted, or the weather is too poor much of the time. Perhaps the time can't be spared from what must be done to keep the lights on and the wolves at bay. The fact that I managed to go at all is a pretty lovely thing, so I appreciate that little sympathy is apt to be forthcoming if I level even modest criticisms for a recent outing.

It sort of came together at the last minute, and I was of two minds about going. I was tired and am more naturally a homebody than an adventurer. That always has to be overcome before I go out. Well, I overcame it, and off to the beach we went, throwing caution to the wind with a major freeway closure threatening to confine us to that end of town should we fail to head home in time later that evening. It was worth it in the main.

Reach The Beach

As I figure it, I haven't been back to Florida before this trip in seven or eight years at least. It's hard to figure it exactly, but I was still working at summer camp in Arizona, which fixes it to that minimum. There are many things about the place that I have missed, my beloved relatives aside. One that was addressed to reasonable satisfaction was the beach. I do live near enough to the beach in LA, but it's just not the same. I'm no beach snob (the pleasure and lethality of being in the sun balance out about the same for me as they do with cigarettes), but Florida's shores are plainly superior.

Unfortunately, we could not go to Crescent Beach, the one of my childhood, but Siesta Key's beach is not too shabby and not that different. It's a little crowded, but downright deserted compared to a busy day at Santa Monica. The makeup of beach-goers is a little different from that as well. The keys around Sarasota have a median age someplace around sixty or seventy, I would guess. Regrettably, society has disabused them of their formerly dependable quality of modesty. Luckily, there were enough young people to carry on.

The Longest Day: Part Four

For the past three days, I have been recounting a busy, happy day of a past weekend. It began with an unreliable handyman, continued with a self-help workshop, and developed further with a birthday dinner. Where I left off, we were looking to push the good times a little further with a nocturnal visit to the beach. Today, reader, you are to be commended for sticking around all the way to the thrilling conclusion.

I had been advised that a swim might actually take place, and so I had come prepared with my trunks and a towel. I need not have. We drove a short distance, parking a just a little way from the beach itself. Some people who had not been part of the prior festivities met us there, and informed us of police who were "busting heads" after finding some underage drinkers on the beach, which was officially closed. We did the sensible thing after hearing that: going back to the perpendicular street behind us and walking a block or so further to circumvent the authorities.

We had on hand all the things that make a night on the beach magical. There were good friends, acoustic guitars, cigarettes and unidentified beverages ensconced in brown paper bags. I partook directly only of the first two, but indirectly enjoyed the second two in the form of more cheery companions. We walked out onto the sand and took over a lifeguard tower which announced that no life guard was on duty. During years past of greater prosperity I assume that it was manned, and not simply a cruel, expensive trick played on swimmers in trouble.