Upon Days Gone By

I suppose my blog is becoming more of a personal reflection than a traditional blog that links to news stories, or articles. However, this being my blog, I can do what I damn-well please.

I went to the beach this past Saturday, for one of the only times this summer. I realized that I had not spent any time on the beach during the daytime, and that, with the exception of a few night walks, I had rarely visited the beach at all. I found this to be inexcuseable, as I live merely a block and a half from the ocean. Sure I would more often than not be going alone, but I realized that time spent in the fresh air and ocean water was probably better than parking my butt on the couch. When I saw how little of the summer was left, I resolved to make Saturday my day to go to the beach.

I awoke at around 6 AM, following a night of imbibing. I decided that, since my mind had decided to emerge from somnolence, I should encourage my body to follow suit. Three hours of television and many glasses of water later, I resolved to strike out for the beach. I was soon reminded that I was devoid of all but the most basic elements required for a beach visit, my swimsuit. I made my way to my parents' house to borrow a beach towel, beach chair, and sunblock. I navigated my way through the throngs of DFDs (Down For the Days, a local acronym used to describe non-residents who come to take advantage of Rockaway's beach), to purchase some Woodpecker Cider. I sought a beverage which would take the edge off the previous night, while simultaneously not being so harsh as to upset my stomach again. Provisions in hand, I made my way back to my apartment to put the cider on ice, grab a book, and finally walk down to the beach.

I arrived at the beach wall, and immediately was reminded that this was not the beach I had been to growing up. My house is thirteen blocks from my apartment, and the beach terrain is somewhat different. Firstly, whereas 128th Street provides a clear view to the water from the wall, 141st Street has sand dunes topped by grass and reeds. I had been to this beach previously as a surfer, but the perspective becomes different when one intends to sit on the shore for an extended period of time. I approached the sand dune closest to me, and decided to go around it on the left side, as is my habit. I am not sure as to when I picked this tendency, but my supersticious nature leads me to habitual actions which I can not seem to shake. I trudged through the losely packed sand of the upper beach, and discovered that some things had not changed. I still based my choice of seating location based upon sightlines to the nearest attractive female in a bikini. Finding only one sleek and finely tanned teenaged girl, and her equally bronzed mother who's body had not yet succumbed to the rigors of age, I determined an angle which would allow me to keep an eye on them while not appearing to stare. I settled down in my chair, cracked my book and my first beer, and then I was gone.

I went racing backwards in time, and was bombarded by the collective memory of countless days spent at the beach. I was 9 years old, riding my first ever boogie-board (an Orange Aussie) learning how to catch a wave, and somehow believing that I had acquired magical powers through the board. My father was in the water with me, my sister, and my cousins. We all took turns using the boards, and cheering each other on as we caught a wave.

I was 11 years old, conceiving of "The Summer of 1000 waves", wherein I planned to catch and count the waves I caught and body-surfed or boogie-boarded. I made 1000 faster than I could imagine, and didnt' stop there.

I was 15 years old, and standing up for my first prolonged ride on a surfboard. I caught the wave, stood up, turned left, and felt a ruch of exhiliration like none that I had known.

I went running through tide pools with my friends, wrestling and skimboarding and jumping. I drifted along in those same tide pools, hopelessly caught in the pull of the current, and saved from being sucked into a violent sea by a faceless stranger who had just happened to see me struggling. It was late at night, and I don't doubt that I would have died in the broiling surf, with little to no chance of being found in the black and churning waters.

I sat on the shoreline and made drip-castles, dreaming of what would go on inside. I played chicken of the sea, racing from the shore break as it rolled in, and boldly chasing the water as it receeded. Iced tea pumped out from the blue thermos never tasted sweeter than when it was chasing the salt out of your mouth. Sand fights ran the gammut from innocent fun, to severely serious. Games of punchball, and Over-under-Through lasted for hours. Baloney sandwiches derived an extra crunch from grains of sand. Sunburns and jellyfish stings, near-drownings and crab bites; none of these could send us home. Mom and dad would pack up and go, and responsibility for the kids on the block would pass from parent to parent. These same parents would rise as one when it appeared a child was struggling in the water, more often than not beating the lifeguards into the water.

I think I may have just decided to write a book about this. Stay tuned...