Joan, my host mom, drops me off at the upper end of the trail that leads to the beach. She is off to visit a friend who has been ill and is bringing cheering up flowers from the garden - iris, rhododendron, and a solitary hydrangea. Down the trail I go in my Chacos with the sky blue straps. Joan runs through the beach checklist before I leave. Towel? Hat? Water? Fruit? These Aussies are serious about their sun protection. Of course, I pack a few things that were on my list but not on Joan's, like sunscreen, Bible, notebook, A Wrinkle in Time, and $5 in coins.
I squeeze some lemon juice into my hand over the sink and run my fingers through my hair before we walk out the door and climb into the silver Mercedes. I tell Joan it's to blonde up my hair. She laughs.
I make my way down to the sand, where I wriggle out of my Chacos with the sky blue straps and undertake the burning of the soles of my feet. It's a necessary part of summer on the beach, I tell myself, a practical rite of passage. I grimace and finally reach the water.
The beach is crowded today. Sailboats, speedboats and jet skis weave through the water in what appear from the beach to be harrowing near-disasters. There are clusters of people, most of them young, standing in the shallows splashing each other, and throwing footballs that whistle when you throw them. The young families stake their claim at the water's edge, mothers making sure Aussie Jr. has his sun hat on and fathers playing catch. The deserted ruins of sandcastles are scattered along the shore.
Umbrellas populate the landscape, as well as beach boxes, which offer a more substantial escape from the sun. To my right, some guys are trying to push their full sized speed boat up on the beach. They've given up now and are trying another tactic. Good looking beach boys are a nuisance in the same way sharply dressed guys are. You know nothing about their theology, what they think about Margaret Sanger, or whether they like sweet pickles. All you know is they're terribly good looking in swim trunks, which is not helpful information in the least.
I extract my towel from my beach bag, and dig out my notebook and pen and begin a blogpost.
Joan, my host mom, drops me off at the upper end of the trail that leads to the beach...
Much love,
LMS
I squeeze some lemon juice into my hand over the sink and run my fingers through my hair before we walk out the door and climb into the silver Mercedes. I tell Joan it's to blonde up my hair. She laughs.
I make my way down to the sand, where I wriggle out of my Chacos with the sky blue straps and undertake the burning of the soles of my feet. It's a necessary part of summer on the beach, I tell myself, a practical rite of passage. I grimace and finally reach the water.
The beach is crowded today. Sailboats, speedboats and jet skis weave through the water in what appear from the beach to be harrowing near-disasters. There are clusters of people, most of them young, standing in the shallows splashing each other, and throwing footballs that whistle when you throw them. The young families stake their claim at the water's edge, mothers making sure Aussie Jr. has his sun hat on and fathers playing catch. The deserted ruins of sandcastles are scattered along the shore.
Umbrellas populate the landscape, as well as beach boxes, which offer a more substantial escape from the sun. To my right, some guys are trying to push their full sized speed boat up on the beach. They've given up now and are trying another tactic. Good looking beach boys are a nuisance in the same way sharply dressed guys are. You know nothing about their theology, what they think about Margaret Sanger, or whether they like sweet pickles. All you know is they're terribly good looking in swim trunks, which is not helpful information in the least.
I extract my towel from my beach bag, and dig out my notebook and pen and begin a blogpost.
Joan, my host mom, drops me off at the upper end of the trail that leads to the beach...
Much love,
LMS
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