For some reason, when I wake up Sunday morning I decide to go to the beach for a few hours. I know it will be double the people, but the beach I go to is away from the madding crowds. If I go early enough, I can be on my way home by the time most people are setting up at the beach for the Long Pre/Post-Rental Sit-In. Unfortunately, high tide is working against me. The timing of the tide means that there will be limited exposed beach for a few hours.
I park in my usual spot, close enough to the bath house to walk to it, but far enough away that most families won't park here in case their kiddos need the bathroom. I do have to compete with the local renters, though. Thankfully, they're mostly families because this end of the beach isn't a hot spot for teenagers and young adults (no arcades, no bars, no nightlife). This end of the beach is mostly surfers and die-hard wave jumpers.
Until ... because I am a flypaper for freaks ... a family sets up mere feet from me. Then another. And another. Suddenly, my wide open spot is still wide open except for the nucleus. I am now sitting in the center of lots of people while the rest of the beach remains open. It's like they all see me, figure I must know THE BEST SPOT ON THE BEACH, and surround me.
One group sets up country music blasting to my left. Another group sets up classic rock blasting to my right. It's like they don't even realize they're next to each other nor that they are bothering other people on the beach. This isn't Hampton Center or Salisbury Center, for crying out loud. This isn't party freaking central. I breathe slowly, reminding myself that these are the Weekend People. This is their holiday and vacation weekend, and many of them have to work in less than twenty-four hours.
Before it's even lunchtime, I am more than ready to leave. I've been to the beach, I've walked in the sand, and I've been in the water. I've also reached my aggravation limit for these Weekenders. My sandy spot, like my parking spot, will be gobbled up in no time.
