Last week’s column about going to the
beach generated some unhappy email replies. Apparently, writing a few smart-aleck
comments about being uncomfortable at the beach is enough to put the state’s
entire tourism industry in jeopardy. C’mon, even if the Dept. of Tourism
accidentally published my beach-bashing essay on its website, it would have no
impact on whether people visit the shore this summer. It’s not like thousands
of state residents are contemplating a beach vacation, and saying, “Hey Marge,
we should take the kids to the beach this year, but I have no idea what it’s
like. Are there rolling meadows at the beach? Apple trees? Opera houses? Petting
zoos? Wait a minute, here’s a column in the newspaper. Hmm, this guy says the
beach has lots of sand and salt and sun. Wow! Who knew? We are definitely NOT going
there!”
No, everybody already knows what the
beach is like, and my essay is not going stop anyone from visiting. And
besides, it’s not like I was bashing the beach. Mostly, I was bashing my
ancestors, who gave me this pale and fragile skin, which doesn’t do well at the
beach. I like the beach fine, but my skin doesn’t like it very much at all. I
would be perfectly happy to go to the beach and just leave my skin at home, but
that would probably leave a stain on the seat of my car.
As I mentioned last week, my wimpy
skin burns easily and starts to chafe at the mere thought of getting sand in my
bathing suit. Since the unhappy emails I received are making me a little
defensive, I’m compelled to bring out the big guns. So here goes: I’ve already
had skin cancer three times. There, now don’t you feel bad for criticizing me?
When my friends and relatives ask me
to go to the beach with them, I know they’re trying to be nice. In their minds,
they’re saying, “Bill, wanna join us for some fun at the beach?!” But to me, a
beach invitation is similar to visiting a guy in the hospital who just had a
tumor removed from his lung, and saying, “Hope you get better soon, and here’s a
little gift: a carton of Camels. Unfiltered. Just the way you like ’em.”
On those rare occasions when I do
visit the beach, I spend most of my time doing two things: taking bets on which
part of my body will blister first, and searching for shade. But in case you
haven’t noticed, the beach is noticeably lacking in maple trees (not to mention
opera houses and petting zoos). So I visit the snack shack a lot, which has a
small overhang that gives some relief from the sun. The kid behind the counter
says, “That will be $3 for ANOTHER Snickers bar, sir, and $9 for five minutes
of shade.” I willingly pay.
Last week I forgot to mention another
delightful aspect of visiting the beach. No matter how carefully you wrap the
sandwiches in your cooler — even with double Ziploc bags — by the second bite
you are chewing a sizeable portion of sand. Some thoughts at that moment: “Oh,
now I know how these things got their name,” and, “Maybe this sand will polish
my teeth,” and, “I read somewhere that ingesting sand can clean out your colon.
But hopefully not right here right now.”
By the way, tomorrow, July 16, I will
be in the Republican-American booth during Torrington, Conn.’s downtown Marketplace
street fair. Stop by and share your favorite beach adventures, both the bad and
the REALLY bad. The most interesting stories will appear in a future column!
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