The Mammarelle. This term might be exclusive to Italian-American dialect, but you know who I mean: the little old lady who stands at the edge of the surf. She hasn’t updated her swimwear since the days when they called it a “bathing costume,” but she doesn’t care; time has washed away all fashion and body insecurities, thank God. Either she can’t swim, or she doesn’t swim, but she surely has no fear—she stands, still and unflinching, as huge waves crash or a body-boarder swerves around her or a football whizzes by her head. Her activities are limited to gently crouching and splashing water on her thighs, disapproving of children, and staring out at the horizon with the wisdom of the ages. She is as salty as the sea itself. I want to be her.
The Missing Link. This guy has a back so hairy, it looks like he’s wearing a fur cape. To be completely honest, I love this guy. I never make fun of him. Human enjoyment of the beach is so pure, it feels primal. We’re all animals, this guy especially, and we should all feel free to enjoy the breeze on our skin and the sun on our shoulders. He’s a symbol of body acceptance we could all stand to emulate.
Disclosure: I once dated a guy in college who had the furriest back and shoulders, and I shaved the back of his neck for him so that, in his words, “there would be a break” between his head hair and his back hair. Readers, if you have a son or brother who is single, think of this and what a nice girlfriend I can be.
The Bad Parent. If you sit at the beach long enough, you’re gonna see somebody smack their kid. Then you have to decide whether saying something will make it better or worse. Here’s the thing, kids at the beach are going to kick sand, and steal toys, and not come in from the surf when you tell them to, they’re kids! My theory is that parents feel more on display at the beach, so they overreact to their children’s misbehavior. The irony is, the fear of judgment that makes them react harshly is exactly what incurs that judgment from others. My request to the bad parent is this: if I promise to give you the benefit of the doubt this one time, will you please find a better way to discipline your kid?
The Lovers. Honestly, I’m more grossed out by these people than the hairy guy. Look, you already get to be nearly naked and lying down next to each other. You even get to lube each other up with suntan oil. I will allow a few kisses on top of all that. But if you need MORE erotic interaction than what I just listed, please, for the sake of the children, go home.
The Space Invaders. Um, hi, we’re right here, in case you didn’t notice. I think you did notice, because you just kicked your sandy flip-flops off onto my blanket. Your cooler just nudged my head. Your bag of chips just tipped over onto my magazines. You know I am here. More importantly, you know I was here first. So please, just acknowledge me and my personal space so we can work this out. On a crowded beach, a simple, “is this okay?” turneth away wrath.
The Loud Talker. A beach is not a library, it’s the great outdoors, knock yourself out! The beach is a symphony of sound: the crashing waves, the propeller airplanes, the children squealing in the surf, their mothers calling to them. But there are some people whose voices cut through the din like a squawking seagull. You try to refocus on the page of your book—maybe even this book!—but you can’t ignore them. You’re transformed into an unwilling eavesdropper, listening to a boring story about their mother-in-law or the football game or lunch plans or Susan’s divorce. (Susan, I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’re better off.) I don’t know if it’s the volume of their voice or the timbre or the direction of the wind. The truth is, it isn’t their fault, but I blame them for it anyway.
The Angel Child. Maybe it’s just me and my ovaries going “knock knock, anybody home?” but I always get fixated on one magical child at the beach. Last time it was a family with three kids under age six who squeezed in next to me and my friend. I confess, when I first saw them setting out their things so close to us, I worried this was too many kids-per-square-foot of sand, but these kids were a dream. The older brother and sister played nicely with one another, but the youngest was the sweetest of all. She sat under the umbrella with her dad and watched her siblings, squeezing the sand in tiny fistfuls, her hair in little beaded braids, her head as perfect and round as a marigold. Later, we gathered our things to go home, I stopped to tell their mother how sweet her kids were and that “anyone should be so lucky” to sit next to her family at the beach.
That’s the wonderful thing about the beach, it’s big enough to fit everyone, no matter their wacky habits and body-hairstyles, without bothering anyone too much. Any petty irritation is outweighed by our common goal—to relax and let the sun, sand, and water ease summertime into our bones.
Even better than watching beach bums is becoming one yourself.
Work Zoned
Lisa
Francesca and I just returned from book tour, driving to bookstores in Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, and Cape Cod. It was wonderful to meet our readers, and the only downside of the tour was the fault of the Pennsylvania Turnpike Commission.
Let me explain.
I’m not the bravest driver in the world, especially when I’m crossing the Bay Bridge in Maryland. In fact, Francesca drove us over the bridge while I was in the passenger seat, driving myself over the deep end.
I would like to meet the person who designed the Bay Bridge, which zooms straight up into the clouds, veers left at a seagull, reaches heaven, then plunges back down again, barely skimming the top of the briny deep.
It’s not a bridge, it’s a roller coaster.
I had been dreading the Bay Bridge since before the tour started, when I looked at Google Maps, determined that we had to cross the bridge, then noticed an article reporting the bridge was so terrifying that there’s a service whereby people will drive your car over the bridge for you.
While you pee yourself in the backseat.
The cost for this service is $25, but I would’ve paid $250, though unfortunately, the service has to be booked a few months in advance because sanity still exists.
I wish I could meet the people who booked the service. I feel sure that my future ex-husband would be among them.
So Francesca got us over the bridge, but I took the wheel when we crossed into Pennsylvania, where I got mad at my own Commonwealth. Because when I wasn’t looking, the Turnpike Commission raised the speed limit to 70. Of course, if the speed limit is 70, everyone’s going 75 and even 80, with the result that your favorite author (me), was doing 55 in the slow lane.
Because I still remember 55 Stay Alive.
In fact, I could find statistics that prove that there are fewer accidents at a speed limit of 55, but I can’t look it up right now as I am still shaking from driving on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
Anyway, you don’t need statistics when you have common sense, and it makes sense that if you drive slower, you’re less likely to have an accident. Or if you have an accident, it’s less likely to be one that turns you into middle-aged road pizza.
In any event, you can imagine how the trip through Pennsylvania went, as I drove in the slow lane doing a completely sensible 55, but was nevertheless honked, tailgated, and given the finger 55 times, which I’m pretty sure was a coincidence.
Needless to say, my beloved daughter watched cars passing us with increasing horror. “Mom,” Francesca said, “you have to speed up.”
“No, I refuse.”
“But this isn’t a safe speed.”