BEACH DAY . . . FINALLY

I have been avoiding the beach.

First I avoid the beach because New Hampshire (where my favorite beach is located) won't let Massachusetts cars into their state. Oh, sure, I could go to Massachusetts beaches, except that brings up problem number two: giant jellyfish with tentacles that can grow to 120 feet.  FEET. Yes, you read that correctly. These jellyfish are showing up all over Massachusetts, so, screw that. I'm not going to any jellyfish beaches regardless of what Spongebob Squarepants has to say about it.

Finally, one morning this week I wake up early and simply decide, fudge this crap, I'm going to the beach to walk because it's low tide so the entire beach will be open. I honestly don't care if I get into the water or not (jellyfish), but I need a walk and I need the sand in my toes. I grab my beach staples: water, sunscreen, paper, pens, a book, and my glasses. My beach chairs live in my car 365 days a year just in case I should come across the beach, even in winter, and want to sit for a while. From wake-up to leaving my parking lot, it has been about a half hour.

Two miles from the beach are the salt marshes. One of the reasons I love this beach is its distance from the salt marshes because that's where the greenheads congregate and plan attacking all of the people who are sitting on the beach. For anyone unfamiliar, the greenhead is a nasty giant fly that has jaws of steel, and it will take a chunk out of you while sucking your blood, leaving a nasty miniature bite behind. Greenheads are like inept vampires -- ready to deplete your veins but totally unaware that sharp fangs or needles would actually do the trick more quickly and efficiently. They are the idiot toddlers of the blood-sucking insect world, and they invade New England beaches for several weeks during the summer.

As I pass the salt marshes, something lands on my windshield smack in front of my face. A goddamned greenhead. I try speeding up, but it has a superglue grip to the glass. I examine it closely, trying to deny that it is a greenhead while also trying not to drive off the road and into the salt marsh, thus ensuring that I will either drown or be bled to death by seasonal villains. Even the wipers cannot dislodge the bug. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it disappears, flying off, no doubt, to the beach to wait for me to arrive so it can come in for the kill.

The beach is mostly blocked off. Only half of the lot, that goes on for a mile, is open. The rest is periodically cordoned off with concrete barriers and police tape. No matter. It's 9:15 a.m. I have the pick of spaces. I hop out of my car, look over the breakwall and see ...

Nothing. Oh, I can hear it, that's for damn sure, but the coast is completely and totally fogged in. I can see for about fifteen feet, and that's it.

I leave all of my stuff in my car, tuck the parking pass onto my dashboard, and start down the steps and rocks to the beach. Even walking along the water (and in the water, which is warm and perfect), it is hard to see, which scares the buhjeezuhs out of the unsuspecting seagulls hopping around on the sand. I walk for about fifteen minutes before I decide it is futile to walk the entire beach like this. Instead, I grab my gear, drag my chair down near the water, plunk myself down for ninety minutes, and do what I always do at the beach: write and read and dig my toes into the wet sand.

I know my skin is starting to burn despite the haze, so I pack it in after two hours of absolute bliss. No one has come near me (no need for my mask), barely anyone has entered the water blocking my limited view out to sea, and no one's radio has broken the continuous sound of the waves. Packing up to leave, I am actually surprised by all of the people behind me in the dry sand who have set up their own socially distant stations. I haven't heard any of them arrive. I haven't heard anything except the seagulls and the water, a wonderful gift that only the ocean fog can grant.

Some may think a hazy, foggy beach day isn't a decent beach day at all, but they'd be wrong. It's the perfect beach day because every day at the beach is a perfect day. Until I start the lazy drive home through the back roads, I hadn't realize how badly I needed this, how desperate my mind has been for a day of salt and surf. Best of all, my buddy the greenhead didn't show up, and neither did any shocking jellyfish. I may leave a little more sunburnt and a lot more relaxed, but I also leave without losing any flesh and blood to the beach varmints, in the water or out.