Life’s a beach and then you fry (because it’s hot)

The continuation of my misadventures while in America for two weeks.

As soon as I arrived in the US, I enjoyed the opportunity to visit one of my best friends and drunkenly hi-jack his wedding in California (as recounted in a previous Eighty-Four Glyde). But the west coast left a bad taste in my mouth, and made me feel dirty. To clean myself up, (figuratively speaking) I decided to hit the world-famous Delaware beaches (Motto: Delaware, we’re still here!) with my friends and their friends and other hangers-on.

My friend Fred decided to go to Craigslist to find a beach house, (a quick word about Criagslist, I’ve only used it a few times, but I have to say that it has yet to fail me. I know that Craigslist is simply oozing with rapists/killers and transsexual sheep humpers who want you to shit on their heads, but I have yet to find any of those people. I have instead found a good friend –shout out to John, the director of Glyde and Eighty-Four- and a kick ass beach house.) that we rented for the weekend. It had three bedrooms, but since I know my luck, I was sure that I would end up sleeping on the couch. And, being the Nostradamus of the 21st Century, I was absolutely correct. It wasn’t an uncomfortable couch, but the broken leg didn’t help things, (more about that later.)

There were seven of us, I think. We were supposed to be joined by another couple, but they decided that they would rather fake on their friends and spend the weekend together arguing about inconsequential things while their relationship crumbled around them (ohh that’s harsh, I’m naughty.) But we didn’t need them; we had a damn good time without ‘em. Better even! You hear that? It was the best time of any of our lives! You’ll never know what you missed! Jive turkeys.

Anywho. The beach. What can I say about it? It’s the summer destination. When I think of the summer, I only think of two places: the beach and summer camp, (which was always located in some poison ivy- and foot-long mosquito-infested woods that resembled the forest moon of Endor). Everybody loves the beach; the sand, the sun, the waves, the umbrellas, the sunburn, the really fat and hairy people who wear completely inappropriate bathing suits because they’re in total denial of how hideous they are, (but, because you’re wearing sunglasses, you can’t help but stare anyway) and the food.

Some people go to the beach to swim. They enjoy the ebb and flow of the waves and go surfing, boogie boarding or body surfing, (or they just like going to the bathroom in the ocean.) Some people go to get a nice tan. They slather on the SPF 500 lotion and just lay out in the sun, cooking in the heat. It gets so hot you could walk up to somebody lying on their stomach and fry a few pieces of bacon on their back, if you were so inclined. The fun part is watching the women turn over with their tops undone, hoping to sneak a peek at some side boob, or maybe a nipple or two, (but not two nipples on one boob, that’d just be weird!)

Some people go there just to catch up on their reading, bringing along the latest crap from James Patterson, Mary Higgins Clark, Lillian Jackson Braun or Jane Evanovich, (that’s right, I went there) and stare intently at their books, ignoring the world around them. Getting up only to go to pee or buy a hot dog. Some people, like my mom, go just to absorb the beach experience. They wear their bathing suits but never go further into the water than their ankles. I think most people fall into this category.

Some people go just to look sexy and bathe in the envy of all other beach-goers. What with their taut bodies and smooth skin. Jerks. Even the hot chicks piss me off, cause I’m never going to get one of them and they just strut up and down the beach as if to say “go ahead and take a gander at my luscious butt cheeks, because that’s as close as you’ll ever get!” Makes me want to bury my head in the sand.

I wanted to enjoy the ocean myself, but unfortunately, I somehow managed to break my leg the night before we went to the beach, (don’t ask me how, I plead the fifth) and couldn’t do much. When I attempted to enter the water all I could do was stagger around on one foot like I was drunk, doing the hokey-pokey with the surf. The hard part was trying to get out of the water. I would stumble a few feet forward but get pulled back with the tide. I found that the best way to get out of the water was to shakily drag myself out a few inches at a time. I looked like a paraplegic who had been knocked out his wheelchair.

My crippling injury didn’t stop anybody else from having a good time though. Everybody I went with had fun at the beach. They laughed, they drank, they found buried treasure and generally enjoyed themselves greatly. I sat there, unable to move, getting sand kicked into my face by delighted children, toddling off to play with their buckets and stuff.

Next year we plan on going to one of the Carolinas. To maintain some kind of tradition, I expect to break my collar bone.