The Girlfriend loves the beach and had been longing to go for ages. Since I'm the sweet and perfect boyfriend, I willingly complied. Now I haven't been to the beach in something like ten years. I remember the last time I went there was for some sorta class excursion. Someone brought a CD player (guess that shows you how dated I am) and blasted Sublime's self-titled album. I remember that CD was the hottest disc around--and it came out in 1996 (yet another example of how dated I am).

Just between you, me, God, the sand, my dozens of readers, the ghost of George Burns, and anyone else who will listen, I hate the beach. I know, I know--it's the one thing that fully prevents me from being accepted as a true Southern Californian (that and my lack of fake breasts). Maybe it's 'cause I grew up with a pool--maybe it's 'cause I hate getting sand up my ass--but I totally despise the beach. The water is filthy (I might as well be swimming in a toxic waste dump). It's way too crowded. And did I mention I hate getting sand up my ass.

Folks go to the beach when it's hot out. Even in SoCal, the beach is fairly deserted in the winter months--but in the summer time, the beach is a happening place to be. People go to the beach because it's hot out. The last place I wanna be when it's hot is outside--not when my parents live a mile up the road and they have central air.

Plus, when you're heading to the beach in the summer time because it's too hot, about 10 million out SoCalers have the same idea. Parking is a bitch--and you gotta pay for that privilege. People fight for the good spots. There's always some idiot with his ghetto blaster cranking out the latest in hillbilly rock. There are way too many teenagers and I despise teenagers (too young to be smart; too old to be told what to do). The beach on crowded day makes the place an unwelcome destination--no one goes there any more; it's too crowded.

And did I mention how much I hate sand? It seems like every beach trip, I come home with a little unwelcomed piece of the Pacific shoreline with me. I don't get it: I always end up with sand in places that I didn't even know I had (if a pearl is made from a grain of sand in an oyster's mouth, what can sand wedged in my bellybutton produce?). You can shake, dust, hose, and towel but it don't matter: I always end up taking some sand home with me.

But like I said: I'm a sweet and perfect boyfriend and was perfectly willing to comply (either that or I'm hella whipped). So I spent Saturday afternoon at the beach.

I gotta give The Girlfriend props: she knew a secluded little beach with small crowds and free parking--eliminating my primary complaints (although there still was sand). We bought grocery store fried chicken, reading materials, and comfortable beach chairs for us to sit on. She even had little umbrellas we could attach to block out that horrible, bright yellow thing in the sky. She had all the bases covered and no excuse as to why I couldn't enjoy Beach Day.

And it woulda been a great beach day if it wasn't for that gawdawful wind. I couldn't believe the ferocity an ocean breeze has. The wind blew more than Kevin Costner's latest movie. I couldn't read my magazine 'cause every time I held it at angle for optimized read, a gust of wind grabbed the magazine and whacked me in the face (why or why wasn't I carrying something small...like "Readers Digest" or "Famous Jewish Sports Legends").

I spent a good deal of the afternoon trying to fight the wind and make sure my little chair umbrella didn't blow inside out. It shook violently on my chair, bending to the strength of the wind. Eventually I had to take it down because the wind was so strong, the umbrella wouldn't stay firmly on the chair.

But the real kicker happened when The Girlfriend abandoned her chair and opted to lay down for a tan. She was there for about 12 seconds before a giant gust of wind came. The umbrella on her chair caught the breeze and the thing took off like a giant kite. Unfortunately, she still had the umbrella attached to her unoccupied chair and the whole apparatus took off. It was a majestic thing of beauty, chair and umbrella sailing through the air like a mighty jet plane. A few seagulls looked terrified as the object hurled towards them but I can fortunately report none of them were harmed (although it did manage to take out the lifeguard tower).

After about 25 feet of flight (roughly 1/5th of the Wright brothers), the umbrella detached itself from the chair. Without the deadweight, the umbrella was able to soar like the mighty condor (unlike the chair, which soared like the mighty dodo). The umbrella must've flown 200 feet until it came to a resting spot, far too away from me.

I looked at The Girlfriend, disbelieving what I just saw. She, on the other hand, was more concerned about her wayward umbrella than the phenomenon we just saw. I wasn't quite sure I wanted to go retrieve it: 200 feet is a long walk without having to fight through the poor traction sand gave you (why Rocky and Apollo choose to race on the beach is beyond me: I'd much rather run around a track...but then again, I'm much rather not run at all).

Knowing what I had to do, I started to walk towards the umbrella. I went about ten feet before I saw a pink blur rush by me. An eight-year old girl sprinted towards the umbrella. I traveled another three feet when she reached the now-resting umbrella. I got about another four feet before she raced back to me and returned it.

"Here ya go," she said with a smile. I thanked her for her effort. Oh to be young again--before you realize that walking in sand is work. She was happy to do it.

That's the highlight of Beach Day. The spot The Girlfriend picked was apparently too secluded: there wasn't a single beach honey around--which made the whole experience lackluster. 'Cause if you can't go to the beach to gawk at chiks in bikinis, what's the point in going?

© 2007 siknerd.com