The beach is my favorite place to relax, breathe the fresh sea air in the warming comfort of the sun’s rays and hear a choir of sea birds underscored by the hum of boat engines.
I sit with my toes blanketed in cozy sand, clad in my protective straw hat and sunscreen and read a good book. But between my pages, I admit; I like to people watch. I find human nature interesting. Sweet and sometimes funny and strange, but never dull.
Seeing kids build sandcastles with such forethought and precision, I wonder if they have a future engineering skyscrapers.
Older kids surfing or bogey boarding astonishes me. They seem to pick it up so fast. But then again, watching adults try their hand is fodder for comic relief. I hate to snicker or laugh, but it’s hard to hold back when they spectacularly wipe out. I see one man walk backwards off the surfboard as if he thought it was longer and then fall backwards wielding his arms like a windmill until he splashes into the water.
Witnessing the strangest collection of characters on the beach, I marvel at the families with a big tent set up, like they’re camping for days.
And then I notice the bronze gods who worship the sun laying out and sweating all day. Until some mischievous kids wait for the girls to remove their straps or pose concealed in the sand without a top, to avoid tan lines, only to be revealed when purposefully sprayed with water or sand. I glimpse some boys unobtrusively walking back and forth in the surf watching with eagle eyes for the moment when the pretty girls get exposed.
But the most shocking set are the northern Europeans with faint and pale skin. They come out the first day with their transparent outer coating and soak in all the sun, unseen in their homeland for months at a time.
Then on day two, the bright and cruel pinkish-red hue crawls all over them and they cover every body part from head to toe and awkwardly walk around seething in pain. And yet they continually seem surprised. I feel for them, but after all, they are self-inflicted wounds.
Tourists are often easy to spot. Besides the obvious burn routines, they either look lost and confused or deliberately ignorant. Disregarding signs that say “Private Beach,” they plop their belongings down and set up their station, until someone kicks them out and they claim they didn’t “see” the signs.
On rainy, windy or cooler weather days, when Floridians, whether native or transplanted, duck and cover, I observe from my beach condo balcony and notice the vacationers frolicking in the surf, regardless. Even sometimes ignoring the red and more dubious colored warning flags as if nothing bad can happen to them while they’re on holiday.
Leaving the beach, I’m rendered hostage by the looky-loos that are a constant source of frustration for drivers as they roam coastal highways in slow motion to take in all the scenery and subsequently block the roads.
And often, my neighbors and I tussle with these beach seekers illegally parked in our private parking lots, regularly overlooking the parking lot signs and despite the large public beach parking lot signage. Although, those who sleep too late will find another sign on those parking lots- Lot Full. Those encounters can be uncomfortable, but overhearing the seemingly genuine spur-of-the-moment excuses can be worth a chuckle or two.
Yes, the beach never disappoints. It’s a combination of a soap opera with a never-ending revolving door of characters and Jackass the Movie. I never know what will happen next. Turn the page.
SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON 