Beach, please

It happens more frequently during this time of year. Days are bright, nights are sultry, and someone — usually a well-meaning co-worker — has just invited me to the beach. The gesture, though charming, is misguided and reveals a tenuous connection. Those in my innermost circle know that I’m not really fond of the place and they have learned to respect that I’m more or less set in my ways.

To be polite I say, “I’m more of a mountains kind of guy,” hoping it sounds conciliatory. When a less subtle approach is required, I then explain that “I hate the beach but love beach houses,” which somehow gets the die-hards off my back. It’s not as simple, however, and an exasperated, incredulous and highly dramatic “How can you not like the beach?” manages to weave itself into the conversation. It is as if I admitted to torturing stray kittens or clubbing baby seals. 

ROASTED ALIVE

Of course, I wasn’t always averse to seaside holidays. Encased in the amber of my selective memory are summers spent building sandcastles, wading in the surf and soaking up the rays with my family. Then again, I also believed in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and Roger Rabbit. Along life’s way, I succumbed to the ennui that afflicts most young adults and realized, in that Holden Caulfield-ian phase, that I hate the very things that make the beach such a beloved destination for many others.

First,  there’s the sun. While it promotes activity and helps boost the body’s vitamin D levels, sunlight is also a major cause of early-onset wrinkles. I never understood the appeal of being roasted alive by ultraviolet light. (Neither do I get how having skin darker than one’s natural undertones supposedly evokes “health,” since an extreme all-over tan screams recklessness and — in instances of Jersey Shore orange — tackiness. I’ve made peace with the fact that I am lighter complected.) As The Nanny’s Fran Drescher once said: “Rays today, raisins tomorrow.” 

Then there’s the damn sand. Whether it’s cocaine-grade white or run-of-the-mill chocolate, it’s still dirt and it’s still annoying when it gets in your eyes, your hair, your crack and your food. Try walking on hot sand and suddenly the notion doesn’t seem quite as romantic.

HARDLY BIKINI BOTTOM

Last, there’s the ocean itself. Of the few times I’ve dared to venture into the water as an adult, I wet my feet at most. I’m a pretty competent swimmer, but the idea of bathing with an anthology of Neptune’s creatures — not to mention the occasional Chippy wrapper — makes me hyperventilate. There’s a Friends episode that comes to mind, the one where Monica gets stung by a jellyfish. Joey, recalling a documentary that suggested peeing on a jellyfish sting to make the pain go away, comes to her aid but cannot go through with it, leaving Chandler with the unenviable task. This underwater world, alas, is hardly Bikini Bottom.  

Under duress, I would probably confess that I don’t mind the beaches in Malibu, Brighton, Tel Aviv or Vancouver. Then again, I can already imagine the stubborn saltwater worshippers arguing that those aren’t #realbeaches, as if the only ones that qualify are remote tropical shorelines and Survivor shooting locations. I can never win.

Going to the beach is simply not my idea of a relaxing vacation. Knowing that sand is an abrasive, salt water a corrosive, and the sun causes cancer is enough to keep me out of the water for eternity and beyond.

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