Water Torture

Today I am recharging my batteries with a day off work at the beach. My bare feet touch the sand and I inhale deeply. It is the perfect kind of warm today, hot enough to claim summer and cool enough to bake all day in the sun. I walk forward until my feet just stop. This is always how I find my spot.

I am not looking for interesting people to observe or hoping to overhear anything at all. Today I visit the sea to flush two weeks of anxiety away. My Dad came home from the cardiac unit on Monday and is finally healing. I allow myself cautious joy.

I drop my stuff and set about arranging everything just so. My favorite "Havana's Bananas" towel is a welcome site, indeed. I sit cross-legged on it under the brilliant sky and breathe. Looking at the vast ocean always shrinks my troubles. "Amen", I say, without prayer.

I lay back, close my eyes and begin absorbing vitamin D. I love the sounds and smells of the beach and I leave my iPod ear buds off for now. I hear gulls, waves, radio stations and chip bags ripping open. Laughing, coughing, scolding, more laughing. And then, shrill and breathless:

"Mommy! Mommy! Daddy pooped in the water!"

A young boy bounds up the sand dunes to his mother, dripping wet and panting. He is five or six, brown haired and fair skinned. His tummy pudges just a bit. He holds it with both hands and catches his breath:

"Haha-ha! Mom! I saw the poopy! It floated."

His mother sits straight up and removes her sunglasses. "What?" she says. Three teen girls giggle in front of me. The woman looks at them, me and back to her son, who laughs louder:

Son: Dad pooped in the ocean! Haha!

Mom: Shhh! Stop fibbing.

Son: I'm not!

Mom: Shhh!

Dad jogs up and his son howls with laughter. His wife says something to him. The man shakes his head back and forth. The boy continues laughing. His father grabs his head and chin from behind, temporarily silencing the outburst. "No!" I hear, out of context from the man. As he further turns away from me, I see the back waistband of his swim trunks are doubled over on one side.

No God

I took today off work and strolled on the pier for a while. The sun sparkled on the water and the wind was just brisk enough to remind me it's November in California. There were more people on the pier than I'd expected for a Monday afternoon. Many fished, standing in silence with their poles and staring at the green blue sea. Seagulls circled overhead, squawking and diving after fish guts thrown over the rails by men cleaning their catches.

In the middle of my reverie a male voice says, "Here you go, God bless you" as he hands me a small booklet. We exchange smiles and I thank him. He comments on my St. Jude medallion and asks me if I'm secure in my faith. I say I am. He wishes me well and moves on. He walks to a bench next to a fish sink not 10 feet away. A young man sits there with white iPod ear buds on. The middle-aged evangelist taps him on the shoulder:

Evangelist: Hey, hi. Here you go. God bless you.
Boy: What? (removes ear buds) What's this?
Evangelist: Hi, how you doing? Please read this, it's explains how you can know Jesus Christ personally. Do you have a relationship with the Lord?
Boy: What? Yeah, I have a relationship with the Lord. I hate him, alright? So take your damn papers and leave me the hell alone.
(The young man stands up and hurls the booklet over the railing. It flutters down to the sea)
Evangelist: I'm sorry you're angry. Maybe you can tell me about -
Boy: Maybe you can shut the hell up and leave me alone! There is no God, okay? Get over yourself. Frickin' loser.

The young man jams his ear buds back into his ears, slings a dark green messenger bag across his shoulders and walks off. The bag says "ARMY" on the flap. The evangelist sits down on the bench. A few people stare at him. He looks out to the sea for a moment and bows his head.

Thrown Out

I was at the bay yesterday, squeezing one last Sunday out of summer. Laying on the shore with a smattering of others, the calm water mesmerized me almost as much as the beach's rhythmic waves. Young boys cavorting ended my daydream. One is tall and quite lanky, the other is shorter and solid. They are both white and perhaps 13. The lanky one is very pale with short auburn hair. His friend is tan with a buzz cut. They chase each other around, back and forth from the water's edge to their towels on the sand:

Buzz: Ahhhh! You can't catch me!

Lanky: Ha! Shut up! Watch out!

Buzz: See! Told you.

(Outruns Lanky and plops on his towel. Lanky oversteps and falls on his knees.)

Lanky: Hey! Watch this. I'm gonna pretend I'm throwing this to my dad.

(He grabs a football and throws it wildly. Wobbling sideways, it plunks into the bay.)

Buzz: Dude, that was lame!

Lanky: That's what he would say. I don't care!

Buzz: Aren't you gonna get the ball? It's floating away!

Lanky: Nope. My dad would be mad but I don't care. I'm glad he's gone.

Buzz looks back and forth between Lanky and the football a few times. Lanky returns to his towel and lays on his stomach. Buzz runs into the water, swims a short distance to retrieve the ball and drops it on Lanky's back. He stands, takes the football and throws it back into the bay with loud grunt.

Encircled

I'm at the beach today (again) and it's Labor Day crowded. I'm gazing at the waves when a family bustles by, spraying sand. They settle in front of me and unpack. The couple is white and 40-something. There are two young blond girls, a blond teenaged boy and two black boys, one toddler and one perhaps five or six. These two boys stand back while the girls raid the sand toys, grabbing pales and shovels. The teen tucks a boogie board under his arm and jogs to the sea.

After shouting warnings not to drift to the teen, the Dad kneels beside the older boy, puts his hand on his head and whispers something in his ear. The boy nods his head, takes his hand and the two start toward the water. The toddler screams and wails something incomprehensible. The older boy goes to him and tries to pull him toward the water, too. He cries louder and digs his heels into the sand. The Mother kneels down beside the two and takes both their hands in hers:

Mom: He's afraid, honey. He's just afraid. You go ahead and then you come right back and you let him touch you. Let him touch your wet hands and see that you're okay.

The older boy doesn't say a word. He pats the younger one on his chest and goes off with the father. Sure enough, he comes running back, breathless, laughing, dripping arms outstretched to his brother. All is calm once more. Still, the toddler stays on the sand with the mother.

Hours later, I'm packing up to go. I take in one more look at the sea, now choppy with frothy waves. I notice that this family sits all together on the sand now. The parents and older children encircle the two young black boys; the younger sits in the older's lap. The others have joined hands around them and sit with bowed heads. I hear murmuring, but I cannot understand. Even if I'd heard, I wouldn't post it.

Recycled

I'm at the beach today. It's humid and crowded, but still relaxing. I close my eyes and listen to the waves breaking. Inside my day dreaming, I hear an odd rustling sound and then, "Oh gross" from a girl to my right.

There are three teen girlfriends sunning together. They are white, two blond and one red head. All three are thin and clad in string bikinis. One reads, "Us" magazine, the other lays on her stomach and the third, who spoke, is sitting up looking to the left.

I look where she's looking. There is a Hispanic lady foraging through a trash can on the sand. She is wearing sweatpants, a dark blue long-sleeved shirt and flip flops. A faded red cap covers her head and a long black braid hangs down her back. Her face is tanned and creased like leather. She drags two white garbage bags stuffed with cans alongside her:

Blond 1: How nasty! That's disgusting. Digging through trash?

Red: Oh I know! And what do they get, like 2 cents a can?

Blond 1: So dumb. I mean, get a job!

Blond 2: You guys! She's poor.

Red: She's lazy. You can get a job if you want one. You can go be a maid if you want.

Blond 1: Yeah, yeah.

Blond 2: You can't if you're illegal. You can't.

Red: Okay fine. Here, watch. "Hey! Can Lady! Hey!"

The red head takes her half empty plastic Coke bottle and hurls it toward the woman, who looks up and shields herself. The Coke spatters out as the bottle arcs in the air. She picks the bottle up and empties what remains in the trash can.

"Thank you," she says.

Sex With Socks

I'm one of those irritating people that sits a bit too close to you at the beach. I only do this to someone with great eavesdropping potential. Today, I sat close to two women with two young girls, one wearing a bikini with bright orange polkadots and a giant straw hat twice the size of her head. She does a runway walk up and down the length of her towel, hand on hip, waving. I just have to hear what she has to say.

The girls are maybe five, white and both brunette. The other wears a "Dora" one piece and sits mesmerized by her friend's performance. The wind blows the model's straw hat off and at once the show is over. The two conspire together and then pick up what look like Bratz type dolls and settle into the sand to my left. I bury my head in my OK! magazine. After some gibber jabber:

Polkadot: Mine is having a baby and her name is gonna be Madison.

Dora: So is mine and she's having two babies and ... (Polkadot interrupts)

Polkadot: No she can't because she hasn't made one yet.

Dora: Yes she has.

Polkadot: No she has not.

Dora: Yeah!

Polkadot: Then say how she made one.

Dora: She just made it.

Polkadot: No that's not how.

Dora: Well how then?

Polkadot: She gets on her tummy on the bed and all her clothes are gone except for socks. Then the boyfriend stands at the end of the bed and unrolls his thing. Then it goes to the girl and tickles her feet. Then she laughs and puts the pillow over her head and when she wakes up there's a baby in her tummy.

Dora is silent.

Mercy

An older man walks slowly on the beachwalk. Cyclists and rollerbladers whiz past him. He walks toward me and squints at the sun. He is in shorts and a t-shirt with "Semper Fi" on it. His tennis shoes are bright white. He walks a beagle alone. A group of young black boys walk past me, shirtless with pants hanging below their hips and underwear sticking out. They are laughing loudly with each other. The man stops and stares. The beagle pulls forward.

"Mercy", he says, under his breath.