Posted by Delfina
on 6/26/2009, 10:26 am
Rockaway, Coney Island, Jones Beach, Brighton Beach ... a patch of sand barely big enough to spread a blanket, "shaded" by a striped umbrella with wooden spokes ... a metal cooler that weighed a lot empty, and seemingly tons when loaded with ice, drinks in glass bottles or containers, and sandwiches (no mayonnaise lest it "spirl" in the heat) wrapped in waxed paper ... old towels ... sunglasses with rhinestones ... a floppy hat and a chenille coverup ... a rubber bathing cap (in the 60s it had flower petals) ... a transistor radio for listening to baseball games ... and the pervasive smell of Coppertone.
My father would have to park the car seemingly miles away, especially at Jones Beach, and we'd all be tired, hot, and crabby by the time we found a "spot" on the sand. We could walk to Brighton Beach from Nana's house, so there was no need for the cooler, but all the other paraphernalia went.
The sand was hot, the water was cold and rough, and the sandwiches had sand in them. Purses and wallets were locked in the trunk of the car, and my father safety pinned the car keys to the waistband of his trunks.
When we weren't Upstate on summer weekends when I was a kid, we went to the beach. A lot. Never my fave thing to do. It was cooler and infinitely more comfortable to lie on the grass in the back garden with the sprinkler going.
I didn't like it then, I still don't - can't for the life of me understand the allure. I went with friends once in a while when I was older, and I took my kids when they were little. For me, now, a beach is merely what stands between me and the water I'm going to snorkel in, period. but go to the beach for the sake of going to the beach? No thank you. But that's just me.
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