IT'S A SHORE THING, Part I

It is Labor Day, the unofficial end to summer. My wife and I are fortunate to have enjoyed two beach vacations this year: one on Martha’s Vineyard, in July, and the other on the coasts of New Hampshire and Maine, in mid-August. Having spent the last twenty-five years vacationing in August on the North Carolina coast, on a sleepy, relatively deserted barrier island, I had forgotten how entertaining a crowded beach could be. Mind you, that it was entertainment was not immediately apparent; there were a few “opening acts” that we were obliged to endure, all of which had me longing, at first, for those Carolina blue skies, sea turtles, and dolphins to which I have become accustomed at the end of every summer.



For example, at several New Hampshire State-owned beaches, I spent a lot of time scooping sand out of every bodily orifice each time someone picked up his or her towel en route to lunch, a better spot next to friends, or the shower. Even when vacationers don’t mean to kick sand in your face, they do. There are just too many bodies squeezed into a parcel of beach the size of three postcard stamps.

According to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, in 2008 approximately 17.0% of the adult population in New Hampshire smoked cigarettes. That same year there were 34 states with higher smoking prevalence rates. Comparatively speaking, the “Live Free or Die Prematurely State” fares better than most, and prevalence has been declining since 2000. If this trend continues, perhaps the State’s one million plus citizens will vote to change their motto to “Smoke-free: Live Long and Prosper” and send Mr. Spock to the State House in Concord. Unfortunately for me, all those adult smokers bring their butts to the beach during the second week in August.



And where are the fashion police when you need them? Men and women of a certain vintage who ignore the extended Shakira rule—hips, upper arms, mid-sections, and thighs don’t lie—are lucky to leave the beach without any indecent over-exposure citations. And what’s with all the tattoos? As for our dear friends to the north, I heard that they frequent New Hampshire beaches in August because on the Canadian coast it is a felony to wear speedos, dark socks, and Birkenstock sandals, all at the same time, in public, in the middle of the afternoon.

Finally, in case you haven’t heard, New Hampshire - seagulls are scavengers! They can locate even a temporarily unattended bag of pretzels, tear open the plastic, and litter the beach with my favorite snacks faster than water freezes in Vermont in January. Those aggressive birds are equally adept with bags of potato chips and chocolate chip cookies.

I suppose there is a silver lining to all of this. According to the Bird News Network of the American Bird Conservancy (I am not making this up), these “trashmen with wings” perform a valuable service: they consume dead animals, organic litter, and other materials—such as snacks high in salt and transfat—that could pose a health threat to humans.

Perseverance does have its benefits. In just a couple of days of rubbing elbows, literally, with all these White Mountain-turned-beach- enthusiasts, a visitor can walk away with much more than just sand in his trunks, second-hand smoke in his lungs, and life-scarring memories of sloppy, cheap tattoos in private neighborhoods. I had the good fortune of sampling some delicious seasonal American pie, New England-style. I’m happy to share a few slices.

Girls being girls

A little girl, about three years old, is wearing a white bonnet that is tied under her chin and a butterscotch-colored bathing suit. She is carrying a pint-sized plastic yellow pail. She meanders about 20 yards down to the ocean, opting for the scenic route. It takes her a good five minutes to reach the water’s edge. Her mother, taking baby steps, never leaves her side.

Upon reaching her destination, the little girl bends over, letting several gentle waves of water splash into her pail. The pail is about one quarter full when she begins her journey home. Upon reaching her family site, she pours the water in a hole. The sand absorbs the water immediately. Quite satisfied with her effort, the little girl returns to the sea.

This activity goes on for a very long time—so long, that Mom eventually turns over escort duty to her husband, who is also well-schooled in babystepping. Eventually, apparently satisfied that her mission is accomplished, the little girl settles down on her blanket and takes a nap. Inspiring!

Four elementary school girls with flamingo-thin legs are each squeamishly clutching a part of some unrecognizable creature from Davey Jones’s locker. They are in a mad, synchronized dash to the ocean, squealing at the top of their lungs. They unceremoniously dump the beast into the surf. Holding hands, they immediately turn and run to their beach spot, reaching decibels unknown to modern acoustic science en route. I am guessing that they imagine the beady-eyed creature is already in hot pursuit with the aim of exacting his revenge.

As this freckled foursome rushes by on my left, my attention is drawn to my right, where a pogostick of a young girl with a ponytail is turning cartwheels down the beach. I lose count after ten; an acute episode of vertigo forces me to direct my attention elsewhere. The truth be told, I’m down-right afraid to look over my shoulder, half expecting a herd of baby elephants with interlocking tails coming my way in search of peanuts. They are not going to be happy when they discover the seagulls have already cleaned up. All I am missing is my worst nightmare: some clown with blue flippers and a big, red, sun-burned nose! This is becoming a very scary place.

Three middle school girls giggle for thirty consecutive minutes as they bury themselves up to their necks in the sand. After a few minutes, two of the three, Lazarus-like, emerge from their self-imposed tombs. The other, still giggling, realizes she doesn’t have the strength to escape her self-imposed interment. Immediately, the other two, without consulting, dig her out. They all titter.

I can’t help but think that if these were three middle school boys buried in the sand, the weakest of the three might still be on Rye Beach, as I write, struggling to secure his freedom, minus the new sunglasses and baseball cap he was wearing when he started.

While this “Thriller” drama unfolds, a girl of about the same age walks by with a curious look on her face, pulling behind her the smiling, albeit gritty visage of Hannah Montana on her skimmer-board.

Unlike their younger counterparts, the three teenage girls who lazily stroll back and forth along the beach in their micro bikinis and macro shades have no task today other than to “be seen” by their contemporaries of the opposite sex. They are immersed in what appears to be an incisive conversation that I am guessing addresses, at some point, the mind-boggling immaturity of boys their age. Otherwise, they are completely oblivious to everyone and everything around them. Whatever!

Boys being boys

First-born son (with great emotion): “Mom, some little jerk with a yellow truck crashed into our sand castle and destroyed everything we have been working on all day. He just took off and didn’t even say sorry.”

Middle son (calmly and earnestly): “We could build another one.”

Youngest son (resolutely): He’s not interested in discussing the case; he’s already in hot pursuit of the perp, NYPD-like.

Pre-school boys spend most of the day chasing seagulls and other aquatic birds and otherwise running aimlessly in circles. They never seem to tire or come close to catching the birds. Parents probably don’t approve of this behavior, but will tolerate just about any kind of physical activity that will guarantee that these still-evolving, quasi-human dynamos fall asleep by 8:00 pm that evening.

Too-many-to-count elementary school boys are digging in the sand and building sand structures, in relative quiet. But when the time comes to knock everything down (either to begin anew or to move on to something else), Braveheart-worthy cries of conquest, death, and destruction can be heard from one end of the beach to the other.



Kids this age also spend a considerable amount of time imitating their older siblings. Two brothers, one after the other, rush by me pushing yellow dump trucks across the tightly packed sand. The size of the trucks is proportionate to the size of each child. I am guessing the older brother tried losing his tailing sibling earlier in the day, but by now has given up. He recognizes, reluctantly, that his younger brother is not only persistent, but also lightening fast.

Kids this age also get temporarily lost a lot. I see them wandering around the beach after a swim or some other activity in search of their parents and siblings, some on the verge of tears. I watch one Dad, who is supervising his younger son, doing his best impression of a Southwest Airlines flagman, elaborately signaling to his older, red-headed boy, about seventy-five yards down the beach, where to turn to find his mother. Each shrug of the shoulders and palms-up gesture by the lost boy, however, triggers an even more elaborate series of gestures from Dad.

After a time, however, flocks of seagulls and other lost boys from other families are paying so much attention to Dad that he is forced to abandon his rescue operation from afar. Of course, just when he convinces his younger son to leave behind all those undiscovered treasures among the rocks, the prodigal son falls into the arms of his mother.

Two middle school boys are goin’ fishin’. They each have a rod, one tackle box between them, and are both wearing camouflage baseball caps and long shorts. The shorts have more pockets than the sea has fish. As they walk by, I hear the taller boy tell his friend that he had a catch “this long” last week. At first, I think the smaller boy is looking up to his friend simply because he is taller. But then I realize, from the twinkle in his eye, that he is in awe.

Three teenage boys throw a football for about thirty minutes. When they return to their beach site, they ostensibly feed the seagulls. In reality, they are competing to see who can be the first to strike a bird with a gluten projectile. They are thoroughly enjoying themselves and completely engrossed in this contest. The triad of disdainful bathing beauties has not registered on the boys’ radar screen. The guys are also blissfully unaware that their present actions are providing further evidence for a failure to reject the immaturity hypothesis.

To be continued…