Today I went to the beach, dear reader.
The waves were crashing along the shore, and people were scattered everywhere on the sand, with blankets, umbrellas, and little kids running haphazardly up and down.
I walked towards the pier and looked around. After choosing my spot, I put up my purple-striped umbrella, spread out my towel on the sand, sat down, and opened my novel.
It was very peaceful.
A little while later I heard voices and looked up, curious.
A family was spreading out their blankets nearby, chattering amongst themselves and slathering on sunblock. The youngest of the five kids (he was six, maybe seven) snatched up a pail and made a beeline for the water.
"Russel! Get back here, the sunblock has to soak in!" his mother called, successfully dodging a falling umbrella which she had been attempting to put up.
Her husband grinned at her and picked it up off the sand, brushing sand off its nylon top. "I'll do it, honey," he said, and began digging a monstrous (No, I am not joking. It was a very monstrous) hole.
Another kid detached herself from the group of wriggling youngsters and strutted down to the waves. She bent over and began searching for shells, ignoring her mother's increasingly annoyed calls of "Sabrina! Get back here!" Apparently she had somehow managed to avoid the sunblock completely.
Finally her mother went over to her (after she finished smearing sunblock over the rest of the children) and talked for a minute in an undertone, her voice calm and measured. Sabrina stopped digging in the sand and listened gravely, her head tilted to one side. Then she got up and followed her mother back to the blankets.
The husband had finished erecting the umbrella; he stood proudly to one side, admiring his handiwork.
"Honey," his wife said, smearing sunblock over Sabrina's shoulders, "why don't you go look for sand crabs with Curtis? He's been wanting to all week."
Curtis looked pleadingly at his father, his little face hopeful. He appeared to be the oldest of the children, possibly eleven, and he had reddish blond hair that stood up in spikes all around his face.
"Please, Daddy?" he asked, as his father rubbed his chin thoughtfully and unconvincingly pretended to be unsure. "You told me you would."
His father's face broke into a smile. "I know I did, bub. Okay then, let's go. We'll find the biggest ones ever!"
The two of them trooped down to the water, where they crouched down, ankles in the waves, and peered intently at the sand, occasionally snatching at the sand with cupped hands.
The mother had finished putting sunblock on Sabrina. She sighed and sank down into a beach chair underneath the umbrella.
"Okay, kids," she said. "You can go play in the water now. Stay where I can see you."
Her final sentence was drowned out by a combined roar as Sabrina, Russel, another boy with light-brown hair, and another girl with frizzy blond hair all shrieked in excitement and ran madly away.
I turned my attention back to my book, as the mother finally seemed to notice that there was someone sitting nearby.
It was only a little while later when another gang of people made their way through the sand and began unloading their stuff. Unfortunately, they had chosen a space directly in front of the mother, who was watching her children intently.
She leaned forward and spoke to the nearest of the six gangly teenagers. "Excuse me, but I'm watching my kids. They're right in front of you. Do you mind moving over?"
The teenager (a dark-haired girl around 17) turned around and frowned at her, displeased. "We can sit wherever we want."
"I'm sorry," my neighbor said, frowning a little herself, "but you'll have to move. You're putting your stuff directly in my line of sight."
I wondered briefly if she was an English professor (line of sight?) but stopped thinking about it as another teenager turned around. He had light blond hair, and appeared to be (according to the current definition) rather handsome.
"What's going on?" he asked the dark-haired girl, hefting his beach chair in one muscular hand.
"She wants us to move so she can see her kids," the girl replied, waspishly, biting off her words. "I think we can sit wherever we want."
"Oh." He turned his attention to the mother, who was openly scowling now. "We'll move. Sorry."
The dark-haired girl opened her mouth and shut it, clearly furious, but unwilling to cause a scene. "Scott! We don't have to move!"
"C'mon, Hannah," he said, already repacking his stuff. "She has to watch her kids. We can find another spot; they're everywhere."
The rest of the group obeyed without argument; they seemed to be used to listening to Scott. Hannah shot an inimical look at the mother as they moved off. The mother stared past her and pretended not to notice.
I raised my book again.
Around lunchtime, the gaggle of children (along with their father) came out of the waves and over to their towels. They were all dripping wet, and Curtis was carrying a dripping pail of water.
"Look Mommy!" he cried, thrusting the pail in her face (and spattering drops of seawater all over her shirt).
She almost recoiled, but caught herself and smiled. "Sand crabs! How nice! Did you find all of those yourself?"
"Daddy helped," Curtis said. He plunked the bucket down on the sand and sat cross-legged next to it, staring and poking at its contents with an introspective air.
The little girl with frizzy blond hair sat down next to him and peered inside. "They're pretty," she said.
Curtis began a long and detailed monologue about the merits and oft-overlooked beauty of sand crabs, and Russel began to rummage in his mother's beach bag.
"What's for lunch?" he asked with an air of complete exhaustion, after failing to find what he was looking for and collapsing wearily on the sand.
"Chicken sandwiches, watermelon, grapes, chocolate cookies, and trail mix," his mother announced, ticking them off on her fingers. "Are you all hungry?"
There was a general chorus of fervent affirmation. The father, who had been picking up things and dropping them back into the sand, finally located the igloo and lugged it over.
"I found the sandwiches and fruit," he said happily, and proceeded to hand them out.
The family dug into their well-deserved lunch, after, of course, a mild argument in which the light brown-haired boy (his name was Justin) tried to move Russel's bucket of sand crabs so that he could see them. The father resolved this by putting the sand crabs in the middle of the blankets and beach chairs so that everyone had a clear view of the little water creatures. I noticed that their mother picked at her food and looked in every direction except at the crab pail.
While they were eating, I dug around in my backpack and produced my lunch:
1. 1 bottle of water
2. 2 peach halves
3. 3 pieces of Fried Zucchini
4. 4... 4... uh, never mind. 2 oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, which were delish.
While I and my neighbors ate, I noticed some more people walking along the beach towards us, people different from the normal skateboarders, joggers, beach bums, and/or people in bikinis that usually came to the beach.
As they walked closer, I realized that they appeared to be a motorcycle gang or something equally strange. Maybe a band of pirates? I put down my cookie and watched.
They were all very intimidating, with tattoos and scowls and tans and such. There were four of them. The first one in the line (for they were walking in a single file line) I named "Captain Smooth-Talking Dan", because he seemed to be in charge (the rest were stomping behind him) and I doubted that it had been easy to get the others to follow. He had greasy dark hair and a lopsided smile and a very large tattoo of a green eagle on his left arm. It was quite bright, so I could only assume that he had gotten it redone. Or maybe it was new.
The second I named "Mr. Mantis" (which would be a good first mate name), as he was very thin and tall, with pale sun-deprived skin, and he walked like he was tiptoeing across the sand. He had no tattoos, but he did have gleaming gold rings in his ears. He was the cleanest of the lot.
The third man was stocky and short, with almost no hair (what was left was a dirty blond color) and a thin, wispy goatee. I puzzled over his name for a while, and then decided on "Goat". He certainly looked like one. If he was a pirate, he'd be one of the thugs.
The last was the most bizarre. He was wearing sharp, neon colors: a yellow bandanna on his head, lime green sneakers, bright orange shorts and a faded pink shirt. He did not look especially clean. He had slung a canteen over his shoulder, which bore a familiar green eagle on its side, and he had several gold and silver bangles up and down his arms. I named him "Sam Snazzy", and decided that he must be the cook.
I watched as the four pirates (for so they seemed to be) paraded past, their various jewelry things clinking, their bare feet making no noise on the sand, their haughty heads held erect, and their backs straight.
The family next to me had suddenly stopped talking. I snuck a glance to my right. Russel was clutching his pail of crabs and eying the pirates with trepidation. His father was still lounging in his beach chair, unconcerned, and the little girls were whispering noisily in each others' ears, very interested in the pirates. Their mother was staring with eyebrows raised, but the four men did not even glance their way. They had ignored me too. They continued past and off down the beach, heading towards the pier, still in their line, looking rather like ducklings following their mother.
I shrugged and went back to my lunch. My neighbors broke into a loud conversation about the "weird men" and what they had been wearing.
"Daddy, did you see the man in neon?" Sabrina asked.
"Mhmm," he said. "What about that really tall guy?"
"He was weird," said Russell, still clutching his bucket. "They were all weird."
"Now, Russell," his mother said. "We must be nice to everyone. Those men were just... interesting."
"Very interesting," her husband confirmed.
She shot him a look.
"Are you guys almost done?" she asked the children.
"Almost," said the blond-haired girl.
"I am!" shouted the brown-haired boy. "C'mon Russell, let's go in the water!"
"But I want to watch my crabs," Russell complained.
"Seth," his mother said to the brown-haired boy, "why don't you see if Daddy wants to go in the water?"
His father got up and brushed sand off his legs. "I'll go," he said. "What d' you say, Seth?"
Seth trotted happily after his father, and Sabrina shoved the last bite of her cookie into her mouth and got up to follow them.
After a little while longer, I packed up my things and headed home.
Outside my door was a thin white envelope. I picked it up carefully, ripped it open, and read the note inside. This action took a considerable amount of thought.
I was verry displized to fynd youyr responze in youyr laste blog poste.
I azzure youy that I wiill nevere stop unlezs youy apologise for youyr actiocns.
Enclosed is a contianer of ded mozzeralla stickes.
Enjgoy,
Mr. Siganel
After I read the note, I threw it away, and the mozzarella sticks too.
I plan to send this response in return:
Dear Mr. Siganel,
Your constant note-sending habit is getting to be a tad annoying. Why don't you, instead of murdering the English language and desecrating every single lovely word, spend your time in a more productive fashion? Read my latest blog post for helpful Tips, and follow one or more of them. Furthermore, I strongly suggest you stop sending me notes, or I will track you down and leave all the rotten mozzarella sticks you have given me in your house, preferably smashed into your fridge.
- Anonymous Titan
Tips of the Day:
Tip #56: Going to the beach is very nice, but you must wear sunblock. I noticed several wincing people with large red sunburns, staggering slowly up the sand to their cars and complaining. I am pleased to inform you that I always wear sunblock, even when I am wrapped in a towel and sitting under an umbrella in the shade.
Tip #57: It is easier to get rid of rude people by being extraordinary nice than by being increasingly rude. I have found that if a telemarketer calls you and asks you if you want to buy something, it is better to say "No, thanks" instead of "Stop calling my house, you dork!" Both parties will be much happier. Similarily, if someone is rude to you and says you are a "weirdo" or a "meanie" or "Your hair smells bad", then you should smile at them and say, "So does yours," or "So are you!" Then walk away and smile at people who are staring.
Tip #58: If you find that you are bored: 1. Go to CSUF and bring me fried zucchini. 2. Visit Australia. I hear the weather is quite nice this time of year. 3. Leap into shark-infested waters, and voila! Your boredom will vanish! 4. Find the newspaper and read the comics section while you blow bubbles at passerby. 5. Go see a movie, and sit perfectly still the whole time, even if there are scary parts and you want to put your fingers in your ears. At the end, jump to your feet and demand a refund. Then the workers will look shocked and you will not be bored. 6. Visit the aquarium and talk to the fish. While you are there, do #3. When you are rescued, explain that you were "merely investigating the thought processes of such magnificently deadly creatures," and look as surprised as possible when the person who rescued you storms off in a huff. Then fall backwards (accidentally, of course) back into the tank. Drench as many people as possible. 7. Find a book and read it. If you don't like what the author wrote, cross out those sentences and write your own in the margins. I wouldn't do this with library books, though. 8. Finally, if you are still bored after all these exciting activities, paint a large poster board with your name and the words "Vote for (your name)" and then stride up and down your street, shouting and hoisting the sign over your head. Watch with amusement as people make funny faces at you.
Farewell, dear reader.
I'll catch up with you soon.
