I am tired and bored with waiting for the weather to
actually kick into summer mode. Oh sure,
some of you will claim it is summer
because it's hot and muggy. You're
wrong. It is spring with the heat turned
up, that's all.
Don't believe me?
Look at the weather patterns. Every day it starts out overcast, then some
sun breaks through a little bit, but if you try to rush out and actually catch
some sun, big fat dark clouds move in, and when you come back inside, the sun
comes out again for about a minute, and you repeat the indoor-outdoor cycle
until mid-afternoon. Sometimes it rains
and sometimes it doesn't, but mostly it does.
Then it gets dark because it's night time, and most of the storms are
done but it's still overcast, and you can't see the stars because god-forbid
the weather should actually, oh, I don't know, clear up, or something.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Repeat.
Today I've had enough.
I stayed up way too late last night, so I don't roll out of bed until
about 8:20. I see slivers of sun shining
off the roof of the house next door.
Gosh darn, there is actually some sunlight out there. Holy
crap. By 8:25 I decide I will go to
the beach for the morning, and I'm out of the door by 8:47 with my gear: a
towel, water, snacks, sunscreen, sunglasses, phone, book, flip-flops, and the
beach chair that has been in the basement waiting until a decent forecast
rolled around.
I don't even look at the forecast. I honestly don't give a flying duck.
I am going to the
beach.
It's muggy as all hell this morning, but I roll down the car
windows, anyway. Sure I notice it looks
a little overcast to the northeast, but I have great faith that the clouds will
burn off. After all, isn't that what
happens on a normal summer day?
Between the highway wind and the humidity, by the time I
arrive at my favorite parking space, #1913, my hair resembles Larry Fine on a
good day. I love space #1913. It's near the pay station, it's a short walk
to the bath house, it's near the back roads to the highway, and it's spitting
distance to the access stairs, which means I'll have a forty-five second walk
across cool sand to the water's edge.
The one thing I despise about the big tourist-trap beaches
is the parking -- your car bakes in the broiling sun a half-mile away from the
beach, the walk is at least two football fields across scorching hot sand, and
the bath house is a good three-quarter's of a mile north, away from the lot and
the beach front action.
Here it's kind of a secret spot, totally beachfront in every
way, but if you don't have a space by 10:00 a.m. on a weekday and 9:00 a.m. on
a weekend, you're not going to get one until dinner time.
It's Monday; it's 9:40; my space, #1913, is open. So far, life is good.
It's sunny when I get to the coast, so I do my usual
ritual. I walk the beach, curling my
toes into the wet sand and the cool surf, trekking as far as I can between the
incoming tide and the rocky outcroppings at either end, then I return to the
car for the beach chair and my gear. Time
for sunscreen, a book, and some relaxation.
Until the boat shows up.
There are several fishing boats visible along the horizon,
but this one is loud and boisterous and large.
It's one of the deep sea fishing boats from Seabrook, and the wind
carries the roaring motor and the chat-filled conversations to shore as if the
damn thing is parked in the sand right next to me. No matter.
It's a deep sea excursion, right?
Wrong.
The boat drops anchor directly in front of me less than a
mile from shore. Not only does it drop
anchor, it cuts its engine, as well. Now
all I hear are the people on board talking.
Note to boaters: If there's a breeze blowing in off the water,
we really can hear every word you say.
Every. Damn. Word.
Like-You're-Sitting-With-Me damn word.
I'm just telling you, you know, in case you're planning on
confessing something important while you're out to sea like where you buried
Jimmy Hoffa's multiple pieces or the breed of dog you're using to cheat on your
wife. Every. Damn. Word.
It's also strange to be able to hear the boat so well
because the wind is actually coming from the north, whipping sideways across
the beach like a life-sized blow-dryer.
I can't smell the ocean at all.
As a matter of fact, I cannot smell the ocean until I pass the salt marches
as I'm leaving and again when I get home and notice the lingering scent on my
skin. What I can smell at the beach is
Coppertone and cigars. Short of sticking
my face in the water and snorting in a salt-filled nose-full, I cannot smell
the salt air or waves at all.
The ocean is unusually calm today considering how windy it
is. There are some whitecaps and lots of
swells, but the waves themselves are mild, almost nonexistent. This is the surfing hot-spot for the area, and
I've seen small waves here and monster waves that swallow people and shorelines
whole, but I've never seen this. It's
like being at a pond. I don't even worry
about a random wave crashing too close to me today; it's totally not going to
happen.
The whole time I'm here, all three hours of it, the sun is
mostly hiding behind some dark gray clouds, and after a while the temperature
drops. I retreat to the car to grab my
spare sweatshirt that I keep for moments like this, but I'm not giving up
yet. It's chilly on the beach and warm
by the car, a mere fifty yards away. I
read another chapter then decide to walk again.
Back to the car goes the gear, and off I go on another
jaunt, shorter than the first one because it's almost high tide and the south
part of the beach has been swallowed up.
I extend my walk by scouring the reduced area for larger rocks to bring
back for a friend's garden. She edges
the garden with the smooth stones, and we gather several every time we're
there. Since she has to work today, I
pick up one rock … then another … and another … and then one more … and then
just one more on top of that … until I am balancing four rocks and my
flip-flops in one arm, and a heavy round beach stone in my other with no
logical way to retrieve my keys from my pocket.
By the time I pack up to go, the sky over the beach is
mostly sunny, but the incoming clouds are dark and angry. They'll probably pass in time, the storms
usually start in the late afternoon and go through dinner time, but the clouds look
ominous and unfriendly. Driving home I
watch the temperature climb from 72 back into the 80's. Away from the coast, it's like a sauna. The storms start in earnest around 5:00 and
continue for about two hours off and on.
My neck of the woods escapes everything except torrential downpours, but
my friend two towns over is getting hail and nasty weather. Like every other day before it and the
forecast for every day after it, repeat, repeat, repeat.
I guess that's why it's called a weather pattern; but I wish the pattern would
change already. Even so, it's not
keeping me from the sand and surf. A
semi-crappy day at the beach beats a good day on a suburban patio any day of
the week, any week of the year. I've
even watched the surfers ply their trade during a cold spell that could rapidly
cause frostbite. The beach is the bomb.
But truly, we're going on to week four of the same
forecast, repeat, repeat, repeat. It's
like a record with a skip, or when the cable picture pixelates and freezes, or
like a video post that loops and continuously captures its subject for all of
eternity waving or dancing or sneezing or worse. They should just put up yesterday's weather,
or last week's weather, or the weather from two weeks ago, because it's all the
same. It's the same old song.
It's spring with the heat turned up. At least the lawns are enjoying it; I only
wish I were, as well. Zzzzzz.
