SUMMER HAS THREE HOLIDAYS, Memorial Day, July 4th and Labor Day. Summer’s also when I celebrate my birthday but lately I have mixed feelings. As old as I’m getting the number of candles is a potential fire hazard.
Memorial Day honors our fallen soldiers, July 4th our independence, and Labor Day the working man and woman. But with only 12 percent of Americans belonging to a union maybe we should call it “Outsourcing Day?” Or “Corporation Day” to honor our hard working CEOs (at least those not in prison) who earn 500 times the average worker and a golden parachute. A worker’s golden parachute is often food stamps. But whatever the holiday’s name, the first Monday in September represents summer’s last chance to blow off steam.
Santa Monica’s population is 88,000 but this Labor Day it doubled as it was broiling inland. In Glendale it was 111. That’s only a few degrees cooler than Baghdad which is a dry heat, ignoring the downside of insurgents shooting at you. On the beach there wasn’t any shooting but it was almost as noisy, what with planes, helicopters and police ATV’s. A Sheriff’s helicopter circled with a malfunctioning loudspeaker. I thought they were shouting, “Sharks! Get out of the water!” Or, “Pep Boys is having a tire sale!” I complained to the lifeguard only to find out they were describing a missing little girl they ultimately found. It was difficult getting my foot out of my mouth to walk back to my towel.
Speaking of feet and towels, the sand was so hot on Labor Day it created a strange barefoot dance: hordes of people running a few steps, then dropping their towels and stepping on it to cool their tootsies, before resuming running again. The shoreline looked like Coney Island, lined with multicolored umbrellas. In the parking lot cars were backed up for blocks with motors running, horns honking and tempers getting short.
I was in my beach chair reading comedienne (and Santa Monica resident) Paula Poundstone’s book “There’s Nothing in This Book That I Meant to Say.” Odd title but a hilarious read. Then my niece, Jennifer, her husband, David, and my twelve-year-old great-nephew, Brandon, arrived. To beat the heat, Brandon and I hit the water where I taught him how to body surf. He’s quite the athlete (three-time little league all-star) so I wasn’t surprised when he caught on so quickly.
Teaching Brandon rekindled a memory from many years ago at this very beach. I was eight when my aunt taught me how to go under the waves. Until then I thought the function of a wave was to knock me down. I didn’t believe it was possible to actually go under it but then I tried and it worked! I was ecstatic. So was Brandon when he bodysurfed all the way to the shore.
As a teenager, body surfing was a passion of mine. I’d go to Huntington Beach and The Wedge in Balboa. I even went to the University of Hawaii for a semester. I met a local surfing guru named Kit, who took me to the best spot on the island. It was body surfing paradise, that is for about 30 minutes. Then it was tsunami time.
Out of nowhere the waves suddenly became the size of a small mountain. No matter how far I dove under they threw me around like driftwood. As I got to the surface, gasping for air, another wave was about to crash. Kit shouted we were screwed, only he used slightly different language. He said our only chance was to let the wave throw us toward shore. When the thrashing was over, which seemed like minutes, we were battered but alive. We slowly swam in and collapsed on the sand, not saying a word. Fortunately for Brandon, I spared him this story.
As it was getting late, Brandon and his parents had to head back to the valley. (To me anything east of Lincoln is the valley.) It was 7:00 and amazingly the beach was still crowded. I finished Poundstone’s book in which she reveals obscure anecdotes about historical figures like Sitting Bull, Abraham Lincoln and Joan of Arc, among others, and compares their lives to hers. For example, Paula wonders how much France-saving Joan could have accomplished if she’d had three children to take to piano lessons and soccer practice.
Labor Day has come and gone. Many tourists having headed home, and the kids are back at school. It’s so quiet at the beach these days I kinda miss them. Go figure. By the way, if you want some laughs off the written page, you’ve got to get Paula Poundstone’s book. As for next year’s holiday, unless we start respecting labor, I think we should call it “Corporation Day.” Just a thought.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on September 7, 2007. Read the original PDF.