Another exciting day at the beach. Today's installation is called Pratfalls because I have never in my
life seen so many sober people wipe out at the beach without benefit of
crashing waves.
I went to the beach last week, but it was high tide and too
cold to go in further than my knees.
Today it is low tide, and the swimable portion of beach water stretches
out for a very long distance due to the shallow but expansive sand bar. I have been warned that the beach will not
look as I remember it, and this is true.
Today while the tide is out, there is a new outcropping of rocks that
seems to have planted itself in the middle of North Beach. The seagulls madly fish for small crabs then
drop them onto the rocks, cracking the crabs open to eat.
There is an aroma emanating from the craggy area that tells
me this isn't the first time the gulls have tried this trick here, and the
rotting sea-refuse sets a stink into the air that resembles moldy sandwiches. My friend and I make sure we dump our stuff
away from the stench. We have arrived
early, as usual, grabbing coveted parking space #1913, and as we walk across
the near-empty beach, a couple approaches from the opposite direction. We plop ourselves down along one of the break
walls. The approaching couple climb the
wall and put their stuff down … directly behind us. Right behind us. In-Our-Space behind us. Even though the beach is essentially
deserted, they want the exact patch of sand we have already claimed.
My friend and I grumble about this, and she reminds me of
the time a family with nasty children did this to us, so we put crackers under
their sand chairs while they were in the water.
When they returned, their "special spot" was being attacked by
gulls, and we had moved away. Karma, as
they say, is a bitch. Today we move a
little more toward the break wall, scooting a few more feet away from the
invading couple, and eventually leave our stuff to head to the water. You know, near the rocks. That stink.
With slimy crab guts and seagull poop.
There is a patch of black sand at the water's edge along the
rocks, and it looks soft, so my friend steps on the sand only to discover it is
not just soft, it is also as slippery as ice.
Her feet shuffle madly and her arms wheel around trying to regain her
balance. It is a bit like watching Wile
E. Coyote in that moment when he has run completely off the cliff and is
suspended in air, not yet realizing he is going to fall into the chasm. I reach for her as she goes down and manage
to grab her sunglasses mid-flight with one hand and put a giant scratch across
her back with my other hand. For a
moment she sits flat on her ass in the sand as waves start lapping at her
swimsuit.
I am momentarily horrified.
My friend has a bad knee, and I'm thinking this may end poorly for
her. I don't know whether to help her
stand or call an ambulance. Both of us
are wide-eyed and in shock, and I'm quite certain the people who stole part of
our spot have front row seats to our debacle.
All of a sudden, my friend bursts out laughing, then I start, and then
neither one of us can stop. She is still
squat on her butt in the sand and in a puddle of sea water. "Help me up," she implores, as if
the state of hysteria we are in is going to lessen any in a standing position,
adding, "Karma is a bitch. I guess
I shouldn't have complained about those people near us."
Later while we are floating around on the swells and yammering
away waist-deep in water on the sand bar, we are still laughing maniacally
about her pratfall. Every time we look
at each other, we bust out laughing, which is creepy since she is about fifty
yards further into the water than I am.
(I have a shark aversion. Sue
me.) I am laughing so hard I am near
tears, she is laughing about as hard, and people in the water who are between
us start to move away as if perhaps the short bus has let off a load of insane
adults here at North Beach.
After a while we settle back into our semi-spacious spot in
the sand. As we are sitting there,
several more people slip in the dark sand at the water's edge. Even worse, the tide is coming in, so
unsuspecting swimmers wade in and wipe out instantly. We see a middle-aged man do the Arm-Flail
Watusi and another guy try and snowplow his way through the slippery stuff,
pushing his knees together while his Willie-Nelson ponytail whips him senseless
from all directions.
Another family sets up near us, and their daughter runs to
the water before we can warn her. She
immediately skids into a butt-plant and skims across the surface, struggling to
recover and check for broken bones. By
the time she reaches her parents again, she is breathless with the story of her
near-death at the mercy of the natural ocean Slip-N-Slide. We politely interrupt and tell her that we
did the same thing. Well, I try to take
credit, but my friend speaks up and admits that she is the one who smacked her
bottom on the bottom.
While we are telling the family our tale, the mom,
long-legged and lean, attempts to cross their beach area, trips over a chair,
flies through the air for a moment ala Super Woman, and does a face-plant into
the sand.
Oh. My. God.
Her daughter just stares.
Her husband doesn't bat an eyelash, as if this sort of thing happens all
the time. My friend sucks in air and
seems terrified to breathe for fear her story has caused the woman to commit
some kind of beach-based Hari-Kari. I
put my hand to my face, turn my head away, and convulse into a fit of giggles.
I'm sorry. I
apologize. I mean, the poor woman
could've smacked her head on the break wall or snapped a limb or spilled her
drink. It really isn't funny. And yet … and yet … It is frigging
HYSTERICAL.
I have to wipe tears from my cheeks before I can speak. "Holy crap," I say, "It's
gotta be us. I think we have bad karma
or something."
We only stay three hours at the beach, and it's probably
enough considering how dangerous it appears to be anywhere near the two of
us. As we're packing up the car, an SUV
pulls up behind us. There is limited
parking for this coveted beach, and anyone vacating a space after 10:00 a.m. is
the most popular person on the boulevard.
"Are you leaving?" they ask us. "May we have your
space?"
I don't want to even try to explain to them about karma or
pratfalls or the dangers of having a Willie-Nelson ponytail or the Sweet Spot
of Sandy Slipperiness. Instead, we wave
them over, back out, and gladly give them space #1913. We feel like we've just sold the Amityville
Horror House. Move on in! The water's
fine! Don't mind the skeletons along the
rocks!
Karma may be a bitch, but unexpected beach pratfalls by
sober people are the bomb. Since no one
breaks any bones, at least not while we are there, it's all good. After all, it's fun and games until someone
gets hurt. A wet, sandy swimsuit and a
scratch across the back don't really count, but my aching abs from laughing
might qualify.
(Mea culpa, my friend,
for laughing at your misfortune. Had it
been I who fell and started this whole thing, I am hoping you would enjoy it
just as much.)
