Sand, Sunscreen, and Sundry Other Items of Annoyance

Two and a half weeks at the beach. RUF Summer Conference. Panama City. Anyone else would have been thrilled, I'm sure. They probably would even be aghast to hear me complaining about it. But complain I will. And complain I must. I don't like the beach. I don't think I ever want to return.

Last year I wrote a similar blog entry entitled, "Son of a Beach," where I elaborated a familiar rant of displeasure with the ocean, the sand, the sunscreen, the subsequent sunburns, the salt water, the sea weed, the smells, etc. And yes, all of those things still burrow into my patience and rob me of any enjoyment. After 2.5 weeks at the beach I stepped into the water twice. I walked on the sand four times. I'm sorry. It's just not my thing.

Sure I enjoy looking at it. That is fun. But that can only last so long. Don't get me wrong, the beach is beautiful. The relentless rhythm of foamy waves lapping on the sparkling, hot sand is a glorious sight. I just prefer to view it from within an air conditioned room. Call me spoiled. Go ahead. Call me that. Spoiled.

The routine is what gets me. You squeeze into that netted, uncomfortable swim suit and remove every other article of clothing. You smear smelly ointment over every square inch of skin that will be exposed to the sun. This requires calling in reinforcements to smear it on that part of your back you can't quite reach, which is most awkward if the only one around to administer help is a male. Awkward to say the least. Then you leave your pleasantly cool room and step out into the glaring, merciless sun (I forgot to bring sunglasses. Didn't wear them the entire time) and squint your way across the street to the beach front. It is hot. Sweat has begun to bead on your shoulders and forehead. You've only been simply walking. Walking. Once you arrive at the sand, you toss your sandals aside and trudge through the unbearably difficult-to-walk-through sand, which gives way under every step forcing you to put in twice as much energy into the next. Once you make it to the water (if you can muster the strength to walk that far) you step in only to have your skin constrict and your arms raise up in a spastic tauntness due to the surprisingly frozen temperature of the ocean. You may gradually and bravely go further into the rising tide, careful not to get certain extremities wet. Once you've had enough of the saltwater spilling into your mouth and the sweat stinging your eyes you return to the sand, only to have it almost magnetically stuck to your now wet feet. You trudge back up to the road collecting more sand as you go (which everyone knows never fully leaves your body. I've heard of people finding granules in their scalp weeks after leaving the beach). You snag your abandoned sandals, assuming someone else hasn't first, and tip toe your way across wood and hot concrete to those foot-showers where you are again blasted with frozen water on your legs to rinse off the glued-on sand. You slip back on the sandals and now walk back to the room, which ironically is no longer plagued by the blazing, suffocating heat, rather it is replaced by the ocean-driven winds whipping you and driving the chill into your shriveled, exposed skin. Back in the room you shower and more sand appears in the bottom on the tub. And thankfully that suntan lotion is now cooked into your skin, so the smell can linger about you everywhere you go. And when you step out of the shower you realize that the bathroon floors have collected large puddles from when you walked in from the beach, dripping swimsuit in tow.

Misery. Utter misery. You can have it. I was there for two and half weeks and I read three books. I sat by the pool. I swam a bit. I played basketball and volleyball. I played Pool Game with the LSUers. I ate ice cream. I talked with folk. But I did not go to the beach much. Nor do I think I'll return.