Vacation Groups

A week at the beach is a good way to forget everything in life. Amy and I discovered umbrella and chair rentals a couple of years ago, and they’ve allowed us to spend hours reading, listening to iPods, taking short dips into the ocean, and, best of all, watching people.

Everyone knows that the beaches across America are loaded with young people. I’m talking about those who are in their teens or early twenties. Girls are have clad in things they call bathing suits. I spied one girl who had only a small piece of material in the back of her suit; her bare cheeks were pale and exposed. I told Amy I’d have killed her if she’d worn something like that.

I laughed to myself at the courting games that went on with the younger people. A bunch of boys would strut up to a gaggle of girls and eventually one female spoke for the group. They’d all turn to walk down the beach. I wondered how they would pair up later. More than likely girls and boys alike would spy new individuals to conquer the next day.

Another large group of beach visitors consist of people in my generation. Folks appear on the beach, and the main characteristics are protruding bellies and perkiless breasts. Unfortunately, some in this group fail to realize these facts. Too many grandmas wear bikinis. Some papaws wear Speedos. Either of these is a definite fashion faux pas, as well as being hard on the eyes of others.

Younger dads are easily identified. They are loaded down with a ton of items that the family needs for a day at the beach. Chairs, toys, umbrellas, and coolers are tucked under arms and dangling from fingers. These men take the little ones into the water to play and pick them up when waves slam into little bodies. Dads scoop their children up, slap them on backs to clear lungs, and then tell the little guys that they are fine. Dads are also the ones who leave the beach with skin that’s burned to a crisp. They have foregone sunscreen either because they’re too tough or believe previous exposure to the sun will keep them from burning. By the way, the worst place on the body for that sun to fry is the tops of feet. It ruins the rest of the vacation because the men can’t go in the sun and they can’t stand any footwear to touch their blistered skin.

The grandest group on the beach is the one consisting of moms with small children. They all wear the look of weariness throughout the so-called vacation week. These heroines get to pack for the trip for every individual in the family, including the dad. At the rented condo, they cook meals, tidy up the place, and wash clothes. I sat beside one mom who soothed her little one with Spanish lullabies; her time in the sun or water was limited. The only rest moms get is the few minutes when dads have the kids in the water and the time between bedtime for children and their slipping into unconsciousness. Too often, moms’ work continues at the beach as they take care of little children and big ones in the form of dads.

By the time vacation is over, moms are barely hanging on until they can get back home. When the kids go back to school and dads go back to work, perhaps these wonderful females can sneak a few minutes of rest to recover from vacation.

Amy and I enjoyed our time on the beach. I wished Lacey and Dallas were little again so that the four of us could have another week at the ocean. I’m not sure if my wife had the same wish. Amy might miss her “babies,” but I’m sure this vacation was much more restful with adult children.