By John Stoddart
Summer is here with its soaring temperatures and humidity levels that would turn a rain forest green with envy. To escape the sweltering heat, I decided to spend a quiet day at the beach. I packed my cooler and set off for a few hours of sun, sand, and cool breezes.
I do not look good on the beach. I look like I’m wearing my inner tube internally. I held my stomach in for so long that I threw my back out. I remember sunny days in the 60s when I would take my high school sweetheart to the beach. She was so skinny that as soon as we arrived, some dog would bury her and I would have to spend the rest of the day with a back hoe.
Upon arriving, I quickly realized that my first task would be to find four square feet of unoccupied beach to lay down on. I was finally able to wedge myself between three greatly diverse groups of humanity. Group one consisted of four generations of one family that had brought along enough cooking utensils to open up their own chain of fast food restaurants. Group two was three young ladies wearing thong bikinis.
At my age, all the sight of them did for me was remind me that I hadn’t flossed that morning. The third group consisted of teenaged boys who had brought along enough beer to stage their own version of Oktoberfest. They spoke a strange form of English that consisted of grunts, hoots and a dozen or so one-syllable words. This was all spoken at the high end of the decibel scale to make them heard over a giant portable stereo the size of my chest freezer.
The musical selections for the listening pleasure of anyone within a 10 mile radius were a rap CD extolling the virtues of murder, mayhem and grand theft auto. One particular favourite of mine was a cut that repeated the words “move it, move it, move it” for six-and-a-half minutes straight.
I decided to go for a dip to cool off. I was wearing a little rainbow-coloured number I bought in Mexico. The label read “one size fits all,” but that was a lie to start. That was the suit I was wearing in Cancun the day the lifeguard asked me to swim out and scare the sharks off so other bathers could go in.
Whoever said that swimming is your best exercise certainly knew what they were talking about. I lost 10 pounds dodging speeding SeaDoo drivers. Back on dry land, I realized that the beach is where you wear practically nothing and it fills with sand.
I fell asleep with my mouth open and sun burned my tongue. It took a good two weeks before I could say the word Constantinople.
I was awakened by the approach of a pack of rampaging dogs, cutting a path down the beach like a Kansas twister in autumn. The lead hound had the “All dogs must be on a leash” sign firmly clamped in his jaws. I decided at this point that my nerves could stand no more communing with nature, so I packed up and returned to my car. I was surprised to come face to face with a Traffic Control Officer who was engaged in writing me a $25 ticket. When I explained that there were no “No Parking” signs in sight, I was assured that there was one buried deep in the underbrush and ignorance was no excuse for the law. “Have you learned your lesson?” he asked.
“I sure have,” I told him. “Next time I’ll pack my machete.”
Three books of John’s work are now available. For more information, email john@johnstoddart.ca
