DON’T LOOK NOW, BUT SUMMER IS half over. Unless you’re a half-full type, in which case, there’s months left. Every year, it seems I write column about the state of the beach, not to be confused with Heal the Bay’s report card. Mine is pointless, unscientific, and draws from a highly limited sample (i.e. — the sand near lifeguard station No. 26).
This past Sunday was picture postcard perfect. (How’s that for alliteration?) The air temperature was 74 and the water 71. I sat away from the crowd to spend a relaxing day reading Don Rickles’new biography,“Rickles’ Book.” (He says he couldn’t think of a title.) As a teenager, I parked cars at a night-club where Rickles started, replacing Lenny Bruce, who was fired for obscenity. (Tame by today’s standards.) As a kid, Rickles had been a comic hero of mine and I was looking forward to his book. But my day at the beach would wind up like the W.C. Fields movie — his picnic beset by ants, bees and sprinklers.
As I began reading, I was slightly perturbed by people walking inches from me while on their cell phones, “Can you hear me now?!” Why do people on cells talk so loudly? (In the ’50s, my mother did that with long distance calls.) The mantra on the beach used to be “surf’s up.” Today, it’s “Can you hear me now?” Then, with the whole beach to choose from, a large family camped right next to me, hauling a humon-gous tent. Like a drill sergeant, the father barked set-up instructions. There were aluminum legs that planted in the ground, connected to sets of supports, and a large awning that went on top. It was up in a matter of minutes and I went from peaceful solitude to sitting next to Barnum & Bailey.
The kids argued over everything: Not wanting sunscreen, whose boogie board was whose and who was hogging the fruit salad. Not having children, I’m often astonished by the amount of negotiating between kids and adults. The group was so close, I could smell the fried chicken. I was hoping they’d offer some for disrupting my quiet, but alas, no such luck. As I was inescapably drawn into their arguing, I realized reading was hopeless. So I folded my umbrella, my beach chair and moved far away to be out of earshot of who should get which piece of chicken.
I decided it was time for a dip in the ocean, which was thoroughly refreshing. I was about to resume reading when a father and son, armed with paddles and a rubber ball, set up to play a match 15 feet from me. A vast beach and, suddenly, I’m sitting in center court. Paddle tennis on the beach may seem benign, but the sound of the ball smacking the paddle is jarring. And these two were good, so the ball kept going back and forth. Instead of the sound of waves crashing, all I heard was an endless rat-a-tat-tat. In the mid-day sun, I kept hoping they’d take a break, but this was obviously a marathon. Muttering, I once again took down my umbrella, folded my chair, and, like Lawrence of Arabia, dragged my belongings down the sand.
I lay down for a nap, but awakened thinking I was sunbathing in Vietnam. A series of helicopters, belonging to the LAPD, the County Sheriff and various news crews, were buzzing the shoreline. A lifeguard told me they call it “bikini patrol.” About an hour later, there was a noisy plane pulling an ad banner for “The Simpsons” movie. Even noisier were private jets taking off from Santa Monica Airport. In my displeasure, I imagined they were transporting celebrities who are against global warming, unless they’re in a hurry.
I’m also not that fond of the noisy police ATVs that cruise the sand. I’m sure they serve a worthwhile function, but, at the risk of posing a dumb question, why can’t they be solar-powered? When they stop to chat with each other while their engines idle, the beach suddenly smells like the Indianapolis 500 on race day.
All my complaints aside, the truth is we live in a paradise, for which I’m grateful. Tourists come from all over the world just to enjoy our spectacular beaches and we’re lucky enough to have it year round. The water is warm and clean (you can see your toes) and everybody has a great time spending a day at the beach. Even I did. Of course, by then, it was 6 p.m.
Next time I go on the weekend, I might imitate Fields: “Get away, kid, you’re bothering me.”
Or maybe it’d be simpler just to bring earplugs.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on August 3, 2007. Read the original PDF.