The Former Anne Spollen's Author Blog Is Being Retitled to "Notes from Living Upghetto": What Kind of Day at the Beach Are You?

Saturday, August 1, 2009

What Kind of Day at the Beach Are You?

The other day, we got our first chance to go to the beach this summer. I am admittedly at odds with this area and its Nascar-loving, small animal hunting denizens, but when I go to the local beach, I don’t want to live anywhere else. These are pictures of the beach about fifteen minutes from us:

I remember getting so annoyed when my adult relatives asked me to look at the sand dunes. Who wanted to do that when there was a beach with an ocean right there? I tried pointing out how amazing these places are to my kids. They responded with such a blank stare that I could hear mental tapping and the low whisper of: “When will she be done talking about sand?”

I think you can tell a whole lot about folks when you see them on the beach. My husband, the engineering type, is a logician. He reads the table they post about water temperature, tidal patterns, and the danger of rip tides before even putting the blanket down. I’m not sure what difference any of that makes; I figure out the water temperature and currents once I’m in the ocean - if I remember to think about that stuff.

Of course, he grew up inland so the beach isn’t home to him like it is to me. I grew up on a beach and never remember, not even once, having any kind of scientific table to consult before swimming. Then again, if people like me ran the world it would be a whole lot messier and way, way more bridges would collapse. I usually dump everything in a kind of territorial scatter and plunge into the water. Son #1 is like that, too. He heads straight for the water, only now, he makes sure he is really, really far from the middle aged lady in the bathing suit. When we bump into each other in the water, he nods at me and paddles away as if he has just spotted my dorsal fin.

Son #2 has become a herrmit crab. Angry that he could not spend the afternoon redesigning his myspace page, he sat with towels covering his head. I think he was texting under those towels, but he refused to budge off his spot. I did slide a juice box and some snacks under the towels which were silently accepted. (Please tell me that some day he won’t be fifteen anymore; I think he‘s been this age for three years…)

Emma is an arts and crafts beachcomber. She collects shells, “great rocks” (meaning weirdly shaped or super flat ones) and anything glittery or interesting. These usually get made into weird sculptures that she puts together with gorilla glue and acrylic paint. They look like mini gargoyles when she is done and we put them in the garden to keep the psychotic squirrel at bay. (He’s a squirrel who swings down from the branches and sits right near us when we are outside -- then he leaps back into the tree without warning and makes a screeching sound -- we never knew squirrels made sounds. They shouldn’t make sounds in case you’re wondering what he sounds like)

But most of the people on the beach are barges. I never understood this behavior, and I still don’t. They come down to the water in bathing suits, set up an umbrella and just sit there and watch everyone. I guess they watch crazy people like me shivering in the water. Occasionally, they turn their lounge chairs to or away from the sun, but they don’t get up too much. I guess everyone likes the beach, even non swimmers.

So what kind of beach visitor are you? A barge, a beachcomber, a plunger, a logician or a hermit crab?

10 comments:

Elizabeth Bradley said...: I'm with you, I am compelled to go INTO the water, even when I find myself at the beach when I didn't know I was going there, I end up getting my clothes wet.; Saturday, 01 August, 2009
Anne Spollen said...: So you are a plunge person, Elizabeth -- I hesitate to use the word "plunger" -- I'll have to come up with a better term.; Sunday, 02 August, 2009
Hardygirl said...: Barge. Definitely. I like to sit there and watch and listen.

We also have psychotic squirrels. They throw pecans at us from up in the trees. They do not drop them. They aim and throw them at us. I tried hanging a hammock under one of their claimed trees. Big mistake. I had pecan-sized bruises covering my forehead.

sf; Sunday, 02 August, 2009
Adrienne said...: I'm a plunger, although this summer things changed a bit when I learned (after 25 years on this coast) that there are stingrays in the water. Now I'm a shuffler/plunger.
And I still get the urge to make incredibly lopsided sandcastles.; Sunday, 02 August, 2009
Anne Spollen said...: Lol, SF. That's the Pecan Samurai Squirrel, found only in the American South. They are known to plot, especially when any type of nut is involved.

Shuffle/plunger, yes, they hug the shore for a while, Adrienne. I had a similar experience after reading about eels at an aquarium. I asked the fisherman on the dock if there were any in "our" water, and they showed me some right in their nets. A life altering experience, I must say.

Sandcastles, yeah. Emma comes in handy for that -- I pretend to make them for her...; Monday, 03 August, 2009
M. Hillis said...: I would have to chose logician. I like to check the water temperatures, the tides and try to classify the various shells I spot on the beach.

As for swimming I am a barge. I can't remember ever swimming in the ocean but I do visit often.

-Merle Hillis

PS -- Thanks for The Shape of Water. You have no idea how much it meant to me.; Tuesday, 04 August, 2009
Rick said...: After watching the various incarnations of "Jaws" 1-8, I've decided to walk through traffic in Detroit with my eyes closed- it seems somehow safer!; Tuesday, 04 August, 2009
Carrie Harris said...: I'm a plunger. Sometimes I actually stop to take off my shoes, but generaly, I just kick 'em off and figure I'll find them later.

Your squirrels might be related to ours. Ours chatter incessantly. Sometimes they argue.; Tuesday, 04 August, 2009
Mary Witzl said...: I'm a combination of you and your daughter. I tend to head straight for the water, swim until I can hardly see straight, then get out and hunt for rocks and shells for the next few hours. I've never understood people who can go to a beach and just park themselves; might as well do that at home and save yourself tracking home all that sand.; Wednesday, 05 August, 2009
Anne Spollen said...: Glad you liked the book, Merle!

Lol, Rick, and thanks for stopping by. It does get a bit funky to look down and see a fish slipping by, but I guess it's part of the deal for plungers.

Yeh, Carrie, arguing squirrels. I just never realized they made noise. It's sort of the audio track of my nightmares, that squirrel sound.

I like the beachcombing aspect, too, Mary. But first you have to go in the water. Beachcombing is for when you can't swim another second, and a lot of times, you get your second wind after beachcombing.; Saturday, 08 August, 2009

Books

Light Beneath Ferns

"I have this strange sense that my silence is preparing me for something I can't name . ."

Elizah Rayne is nothing like other fourteen-year-old girls. More interested in bird bones than people, she wraps herself in silence. Trying to escape the shadow of her gambler father, Elizah and her mother move into an old house that borders a cemetery. All her mother wants is for them to have "normal" lives. But that becomes impossible for Elizah when she finds a human jawbone by the river and meets Nathaniel, a strangely hypnotic boy who draws Elizah into his dreamlike and mysterious world.

Only by forgetting everything she knows can Elizah understand the truth about Nathaniel—and discover an unimaginable secret.

Teen made trailer for Light Beneath Ferns.

Order Light Beneath Ferns here.

Foreword Magazine's Review of Light Beneath Ferns

Excerpt from THE SHAPE OF WATER

CHAPTER ONE
I discovered windows one afternoon and after that, nothing was ever the same. They had always been there, of course, glass panes shimmering in the color of rain, but that spring for the first time, I was able to open the windows in my room. For years, the locks had been painted stuck, and during the winter, heat from the radiator beneath my windows finally steamed off enough paint off the metal wings of the locks could be twirled open. Knowing that I could open the windows attracted me to them, and I began sitting under the windows, staring through the glass at the sky. From that position, on a chair in my room, the sky did not seem real; it seemed a place I was making up, so I watched it.
The white wood of the window panes acted as frames so the sky came to me slowly, and the huge openness of its space did not touch me. All the window glass in our old house had wavers and bubbles inside it, so at times the clouds moved like water, melting and blurring until they passed outside of the warp. After a few afternoons of sitting, the heavens seemed too quiet to keep watching so I began watching a small patch of woods next to our yard that housed little more than trees and a scatter of bony, mean-looking rabbits.
I started gazing at the sky and the woods in March when the branches were still wet and it was then, with nothing outside my window but trees and rain, that I noticed a shine inside darkness, I noticed colors glimmering within the darkness of the wood. I watched birds come and go, I watched rain nipple down from buds to the grass. The water dripping from branch edges and leaves created optical tricks; I could see that as I watched leaves melt.
Then one day I ventured into the space outside. I did not think about doing this much beforehand. I simply opened the window and dropped to the ground below, uncertain as to why this should be such a more satisfying exit than simply using the door; my father worked until seven o’clock and I could do whatever I wanted until then. But I liked the solid sound my legs made when I landed. Leaving via a five foot drop seemed so much more a decision than just using a door. The sense of escape made my heart pound, though all I escaped was the soundless spread of moss-colored light inside my house and the silence.
I had come to know silence well during those months after my mother died. When you sit in silence long enough, you learn that silence has a motion. It glides over you without shape or form, but with weight, exactly like water. Its color is silver. And silence has a sound you hear only after hours of wading inside it. The sound is soft, flute notes rising up like the words of glass speaking. There comes a point when you must shatter the silence, when you must shatter the blindness of its words, the blindness of its light. I did this by going into the yard. Once I stood there, in the grass next to the trees I had been watching, I found silence outside as well. But I was happier outside than I had been in the house, so I stayed for a bit. I stood beneath my bedroom window for a few minutes, looking up at the branches and the crooked pieces of sky colliding between the branches. I believed I could identify the scent of the sky as I stood there, a blue menthol fragrance similar to the scent of seawater that sprayed into my face when I first dove into the ocean. That initial scent smelled much more subtle than the ocean’s heavy, fishy aroma, a whiff of salt and mint that warned a more powerful scent would enter my nose just as I approached the water on a dive. It was the scent I dreamed in. And it was the scent of that spring sky as I stood in my yard.

***