Wherein that original Son of a Beach, Buster Gammons, having returned from his annual sojourn to the South Carolina shore, reflects on some of the beach people and beach events of the past two weeks, including: Weather, Etiquette, Electronic Devices, The Local Newspaper, A Particular Individual, Beachwear, The Untattooed Minority, Meeting Another Owner, Sheriff Brown, Metrosexual Haircut, and a Geography Lesson At The Pool.
For the most part, our vacation weather was, in a word, hot! The hottest day was the first Wednesday, with temps of 100 on the beaches, 110 inland, and a heat index of 122. All in our little "group" agreed it was the hottest day we'd ever experienced in all our years at Surfside. In honor of that fact, that afternoon we fired up 4 charcoal grills for the annual oyster roast and made it even hotter! Brilliant! But the oysters made it all worthwhile.
Then the next four days were marked by sustained high winds (30 mph or so) as a front stalled to the north. On the beach, your ankles received a low-level sand-blasting, and constant alertness was required, lest you get beaned by some wind-tossed object, like a boogie board, an umbrella, or a small child. All this wind actually made the evening hours kinda chilly. After 18 years down there without long pants, long sleeves or even a pair of socks, I broke down and bought myself a sweatshirt. Naturally enough, the wind stopped the next day.
There are a few rules of "etiquette" that most decent people try to observe when on the beach. Basically, it all boils down to recognizing personal space and maintaining a reasonable buffer zone between groups of beach-goers. The beach is plenty big enough, and therefore setting up all your shit directly in front of me, just behind me, or cheek-by-jowl beside me is breach of beach etiquette -- unnecessary, thoughtless, and a beach foul most odious. Ironically, this foul was usually committed by the crew of Russian lifeguards, who repeatedly placed their rental chairs and umbrellas smack-dab in front of our chairs (which were there first!). Dmitri, you dumbass, what are you thinking?
Device Vice. It's most definitely a sign of the times. Possibly a sign of the Apocalypse too. For the past couple years, a family from our neighborhood has joined us at our condo for a few days. This year, there were five of them and three of us, along with 4 laptops, a WiFi card, a couple digital cameras, and 6 or 7 cell phones, each with its' own plug-in charger. For a few days, our unit was a friggin' rat's nest of wires and cables. Nothing exceeds like excess!
The local newspaper down there is the Myrtle Beach Sun News. It's a red rag for rednecks in a deep-red state. I spend the 75 cents mainly for the tide tables. Other than that, it's fish-wrap. SC Sen. Jim DeMint is a right-wing religious zealot who is somehow highly regarded in the Palmetto State. Every day, there was some glowing article (with glowing photo) in the Sun News describing DeMint's latest demented doings. DeMint has said he will not run for President in 2012. (Good!) So the Sun News ran a letter from a woman who was very sad about this, but rambled on at length about how the next-best choice for "true conservatives" such as herself was none other than certified fuck-head Rick Santorum! (In the medical field, the smelly gray-green fluid released when a boil is lanced is known as santorum.) Then on Sunday, as icing on the cake, the Sun News ran an op-ed column from Fox-wad Bill O'Reilly. Jesus! Is it any wonder the Rebel flag still flies over the South Carolina statehouse?
As mentioned, Buster, wife and son have been vacationing at Surfside for 18 straight years. Some in our group have been going even longer. One of our old originals is an SC family. For several years now, another SC family has tagged along with them, crowding their condo to the max. The dad of this tangential family (whose name I won't mention -- let's just call him A Particular Individual) -- is one of those universal experts. He'll expound on any and all topics, sharing his knowledge and opinions for an excruciating length of time. If you're drawn into conversation with this Particular Individual, that's 90 minutes of your life you'll never get back.
Our Particular Individual often ignores the old advice to avoid discussions of religion and politics. Over happy hour drinks on the deck, P.I. saw fit to announce, apropos of nothing, that he was reading the Koran (in English, of course) simply to "prove" to himself that Islam was indeed an "evil religion". OK, dude. Thanks for sharing.
In the next breath, he declared himself a loyal Tea Party member, a.k.a. a right-wing, anti-government crackpot. Said the Particular Individual, "Our government doesn't do anything for me. It doesn't give me anything I want or need -- it just wastes my money." Another of our old originals and my dear friend of many years, Jim, offered his opinion that government did in fact have its legitimate role and asked the retired P.I. if he cashed his Social Security checks. P.I. replied that, hell yes, he took his Social Security benefits because he'd paid into it, and paid plenty.
Paid so much, he said, that his contributions were "supporting" hundreds of indolent Negroes and illegal Mexicans. (Is that how Social Security works? Uh, no, it's not.) But the Particular Individual was proud to inform us that he's not on Medicare. (So far. That's because his wife still works and he's on her insurance.) When Jim chuckled at all this nonsense, P.I. called him a bleeding-heart liberal (Yeah, so? What's your point?), made a disparaging remark about Ohio State football, and stomped off in a huff.
The next night was the Home Run Derby. The little traditions of our beach bunch: oysters, happy hours (often many hours), the Home Run Derby, the All Star Game.
So four of us are sitting in Jim's condo having beers and whatnot and watching the Home Run Derby. Not exactly Masterpiece Theater, but we like it anyway. After awhile, who should waltz into the condo but the Particular Individual, and he plopped down on the couch right beside Jim and proceeded to regale Jim/us, utterly unprompted, about his recent trip to Alaska and his flight in a "mosquito" plane. ("Have you flown a plane, Jim? No? Well, I have. Let me tell you all about it -- for the next fucking hour!") As this monologue lacked all political content, it may have been a sort of back-handed apology from P.I., but it was like someone hit the "Second Audio Program" on the TV and it wasn't Spanish, it was the "Particular Individual Channel". At that point, you could watch the Home Run Derby but you sure as hell couldn't hear it. Oh well. One by one, we made lame excuses and cut out.
A couple nights later, the Particular Individual managed to engage the lovely Mrs. Gammons in a little chat (after I'd gone to bed, Hallelujah!). He wanted to talk about his Alaska trip again. Baiting him just ever so slightly, the wife said, "You mean Alaska, home of that great American, Sarah Palin?" Replied P.I., "At least she loves this country, not like that Communist Barack Obama!" Mrs. Gammons retorted, "Sarah Palin doesn't know shit about America, and Obama's not a Communist!" Particular Individual says, "Yes he is, and it sounds like you are too!" Quoth the missus, "You're an idiot and a bigot, P.I. Get your Tea-baggin' ass outta my condo!!!"
In another twelve months, we'll all get another dose of the Particular Individual. Can't wait!
Buster's "What Not To Wear" At The Beach:
For both genders: Unless you're gonna take a run on the beach, don't show up wearing shoes and socks. You'll look like you wandered onto the beach purely by accident. "Honey, lookit at all this dadgum sand! Whadya suppose it is?"
Ballcaps and visors are always your best choice for beach headwear, male or female. Some girls work the straw-hat thing, but, in the absence of a chinstrap, they're liable to fly off in a decent breeze. And chinstraps at the beach are dorky.
Speaking of dorky looks, what's up with those big, ultra-floppy "jungle" hats? Or is it the "bee-keeper"? The "anthropologist"? Whatever the fuck they are, they all have chinstraps and they all scream "Dork!" Really bad beach hat.
And c'mon people, cowboy hats at the beach? Roundup at the Surfside Corral? There are no cows at the beach.
For women: Nothing is more attractive on the beach than a woman in a nice bikini, assuming the wearer has a fairly attractive body. If you're uncertain about whether you have a bikini body, you probably don't. Pick a different swimsuit.
For men: If you haven't had a new swimsuit since Hector was a pup, if your swim trunks resemble Wilt Chamberlain's basketball shorts, please do us all a favor and spring for some new shit.
Resist all urges to wear a Speedo on the beach. Brazil is far, far away, and you're not Brazilian anyway. The cock-sock, banana-sling is strictly verboten.
If you have man-boobs -- honest-to-god Fat Bastard he-titties -- please wear a shirt. Please.
Speaking of man-boobs, while sitting up on our little deck, we noticed a large man -- very large, say, 500 lbs. give or take -- regarding one of those small, very low, folding surf chairs. Should he try to sit in it, or not? He unfolded the chair, looked at it from every angle, placed it on the sand and decided to go for it. His fat ass plopped down like he'd just fallen out of a tree. The poor chair exploded into pieces, squashed flatter than a flounder. OMG, how hilarious! For the rest of the week, he made different seating arrangements. We called him "The Crusher."
As always, there's no better place than the beach to observe "Tattoo Nation". Having no tattoos at all, I may now actually be in the minority. Ain't I the non-conformist! I've recently heard some of the younger generation suggest that tattoo's are "art". Rembrandt, DaVinci, VanGogh? Art. Tattoos? Not art. When you were little, staying between the lines in your coloring book was a major "artistic" accomplishment, and your mother displayed your achievement on the refrigerator. Tattoos are the artistic equivalent of coloring between the lines. The difference is, instead of a couple months on the fridge, a tattoo is on your body forever.
Our usual group left after the first week. None of our other beach acquaintances was scheduled for the second week, so we figured it'd be just us. But then we met Don, the owner of the next-door unit. He's a hoot -- smart, funny, politically aware, a writer, an ecologist, a prankster, and something of a philosopher. He was there with a friend, and we all hit it off immediately. We had dinner and drinks together that Saturday night, and hung out a lot that second week. It never hurts to know one of the owners!
Sunday morning around 9 the phone rang in our condo. It was the house phone, the land line, which never rings unless it's some stupid sales call. Reluctantly, I answered it in my iciest, most disinterested tone. The caller was a deep-voiced Southern black man, who identified himself as "Horry County Sheriff McAlister Brown." He said, "I'm callin' 'cause we got some complaints about you people, that last night you was loud and was usin' profanity and wasn't talkin' right about Jesus. We ain't gonna have that here in Surfside, and I'm tellin' you to get your white asses off the beach and go home." Completely stunned and flabbergasted, I mumbled, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," and hung up. A minute later, the phone rang again. I picked it up and just placed the receiver on the counter. Even so, I could still faintly hear Sheriff Brown's voice. First thing in the morning and I'm fairly freaking out! Suddenly, there's a knock on the door. I look through the glass and there's Don waving at me with a phone in his hand and a big grin on his face. I'd been punk'd big-time. He was "Sheriff McAlister Brown", calling from next door! Gawd!! He got me good.
In some years down at the beach, I feel the need for a haircut. I've found a striped pole, good ol' boy barber shop and have patronized it a couple times before. It features three old-school barber chairs -- leather, porcelain, and chrome -- and several other old barber chairs just sitting there as collector's items. There's a framed picture of "Floyd the Barber" from the Andy Griffith Show. It's pretty cool. Anyway, this year I was a bit shaggy (relative concept) and went for a cut. Turns out the Surfside Barber Shop has gone metrosexual. They had never done it before, I did not know I needed it, did not ask for it, and don't know what I'd have said if I was asked, but as a final touch, my barber gave me an eyebrow trim. And you know, once they start something like that, you can't really stop 'em. Whatever you're doing to the one, I guess you better do it to the other. Here are the "before" and "after" pix. What do you think?
One of our last afternoons down there found son John and I in the pool for a de-beaching dip. Also in the pool were a young-ish 20-something couple and an older 40-something couple, the parents of one of the younger pair. The younger gal had been surfing travel sites and mentioned she'd found a really good deal for an all-inclusive trip to Morocco. She mentioned the price and they all agreed it was a bargain.
Then she said, "Where's Morocco? In Central America, right?" Someone else chimed in and said, "No, I'm pretty sure it's somewhere in South America." At this point, John and I were climbing out of the pool with barely-contained laughter. I asked him, "Son, just for the record, on which continent is Morocco located?" He said, "Dad, that'd be Africa." I said, "You're a good boy."