A Day at the Beach
Ah, the beach. The very word conjures up images of warm, golden sand, idyllic waves, the sun glittering on the water, and hours of relaxation on a charmingly striped towel under a well-positioned umbrella. Alternatively, that word might evoke images of screaming children, a steaming parking lot with asphalt like lava, sunburns, lost sunglasses, sand in the picnic basket, and swimmer’s itch. Agatha Christie may have loved the beach (indeed, she was an avid surfer, if you can believe it), so for her, the beach probably meant adventure and excitement. I find the beach tiresome. For me, it is not relaxing - it is boring, and usually quite a faff to get there and get home again - a lot of rigmarole, in my estimation, for what turns out to be rather a flat experience. This may be, in part, a result of my own personal failings. I am loath to bring a really good book to the beach for fear of ruining it, so I end up with a ‘beach book’, something light and fluffy, a little bit awful, but crucially, cheap - that way, if sand and surf are not kind to it, I’m less put out. I also burn like a lobster, and spend most of my summer covered wrist to ankle in light-coloured linen and big hats, trying to stave off sun damage and blistering.
Part of this loathing is, no doubt, the horrible, spandex spectre that looms over all such activities: the dreaded bathing suit. I do not enjoy wearing a bathing suit. I do not enjoy purchasing a bathing suit. In all cases, the whole thing feels like a minefield. Finding one that fits and doesn’t dig in or ride up or bunch or slide around or twist or stick or pucker feels miraculous, a moment where angels sing and dolphins dance. I admit that at this juncture in my life, I have not yet experienced such a moment. Even colour presents problems: black feels sombre, too aggressive, especially without a tan (see ‘burns like a lobster’ above for more details), patterns can be tricky, and recently I read that my standard choice of shades of blue or green is not as safe as brighter colours because they lack the visibility of hot pink or vibrant yellow in water. And yet I struggle to imagine myself, decked out in eye-popping, glow-in-the-dark orange, floating in the waves peacefully like a basking shark. Is all this trouble really worth the few hours of languid boredom, stretched out on my towel and fretting about freckles? I am inclined to stay home and forget the beach entirely.
One place where the beach appears, rather surprisingly, is the bathroom. Have you ever noticed the tendency for some people to decorate their bathrooms as though they were the beach? You enter their washroom, close the door behind you, and are confronted by a dazzling array of beach-themed accoutrements. There are sailboat or sea turtle prints hanging on the wall, and the soap is shaped like a flip-flop. The shower curtain features a frieze of shells, echoing the small bowl of shells on the back of the toilet, and the shower curtain rings have starfish designs on them. Everything has to be blue - cerulean, azure, cobalt, sapphire, aquamarine, lapis lazuli. Very bright yellow or orangey-pink accents are just about acceptable. No other colours are permitted. Surfboards, sanddollars, seahorses, maybe even a piece of coral - they will all feature in one way or another. I urge you, dear reader, to investigate your host’s kitchen after you have experienced their beachy bathroom - it is very possible that if the bathroom is the beach, then the kitchen must be a farm, complete with rooster oven mitts, goose-shaped cookie jars, and an inexplicable pig in a chef’s hat. I’ll leave you to your own conclusions, dear reader.
Jennifer