Opinion: Life’s a beach? I sure hope not
Published: 07-21-2024 7:00 AM |
Brian Adams of Andover, Mass., is a UNH alumnus originally from Londonderry. He was previously a sketch comedy writing instructor and staff writer at ImprovBoston and a founding contributor to satirical online newspaper Recyculus. He is a father to three girls ages 6 and under.
I have a confession to make. Like my father and his father before him, I’m not a beach guy.
I realize it’s blasphemous, particularly here in New England, where so many of us are able to endure the frigid winters only because of the promise of sunny beaches awaiting us at the end of that cold, dark tunnel. However, when you’re like me, you know that summertime can be the true season of our discontent.
I enjoy warm weather, eating at restaurants by the water, and swimming in a crystal blue swimming pool, but when it comes to the beach, as my wife, Kim, might say, “I can’t even.”
On the 4th of July weekend, Kim and I packed up the car with our three daughters and traveled to Cape Cod, along with the rest of New England’s populace. When my oldest daughter, 6-year-old Alexandra, woke up that Sunday, she told me “Good news, Dad! Mom says we’re going to the beach today.” Immediately a knot formed in my stomach. Oh yes, that’s right, good news indeed.
What’s not to like about the beach, you ask? I turn the question back at you: what is there to like about the beach, other than admiring its good looks from a safe distance?
A few hundred years ago, being tarred and feathered was deemed to be a cruel and unusual punishment. Yet, here we are, many of us choosing to spend our leisure time slathering ourselves in greasy sunscreen, dunking in the sticky salt water, then sitting in the sand all day. It makes me feel like a piece of chicken parm, dredged in breadcrumbs and ready to be baked in the sun.
The beach design itself is inherently flawed. Each time you rinse yourself off, the only way to exit the beach is to trudge back through the sand. It’s like building a bathroom where the only way to get from the shower to the towel rack is by way of a dirt floor. Look, I don’t have any better ideas than Mother Nature, but someone should’ve sent her back to the drawing board with this one.
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Being a dad has only increased my awareness for this unpleasant arrangement. Any parent will tell you that glitter, particularly in the hands of children, is a waking nightmare. What is beach sand if not nature’s colorless glitter? Sure, you can try to clean it off, but it’s a fool’s errand. It never actually goes away. My kids are like little sand distributors. If the beach were an Amazon hub, then they would be the delivery drivers, dutifully moving sand in every direction for the duration of their shift, often working overtime.
There was a time during my childhood that I could see past the faulty layout, if only for the sake of playing in the waves. I’ll admit, that was fun. Yet, once I got to an age where the waves had lost a bit of their novelty, I joined the rest of the grownups under the umbrella. It was then that I realized what had been going on back there all along: nothing. Just roasting in the heat and maybe trying to read a book while dusting the sand off your tuna sandwich. Call me crazy, but that isn’t an activity I need in my life.
That would be okay, were it not the number one preferred destination for everyone in my family. As such, I won’t be able to avoid the beach too often. I would like to say that my three young daughters had enabled me to see the beach through a child’s eyes once more, but mostly they just rub sand on my arms and try to bury my feet with their shovels and it’s disgusting.
It would be crazy for me to think I would persuade a single person to join me in my intense disdain of the beach. However, on behalf of my people, if you have a beach crab like myself in your life, try to show them some compassion this summer. They’re hot and sweaty and they’ve probably still got unwanted sand somewhere on their body.