Geese know when it’s time to migrate and exactly how to navigate along the flyways to their proscribed destinations. Osprey know this, too. Nomads move their flocks with the seasons and where to find water in the midst of a vast desert. Our tribe? If it’s the first week of August, we pack up and move the family show to Rehoboth.
It’s that time of year: we’re off on our annual family gathering at the beach. Our numbers are a tad down this year: there are only 34 of us spread out over just 3 houses. Miraculously, there are an even number of kids and adults on this year’s roster, so we’ll be playing man-on-man, not zone, defense. Looking ahead, the only problem I foresee is that the long-range forecast doesn’t look all that promising. Rainy days and family beach week don’t mix. Beach Week can turn into Camp Catastrophe in a rainy day heartbeat.
Which leads me to this: “Beach Week” is a gross misnomer. It’s more like “Beach Month’ given all the planning and packing that goes into keeping everyone fed, hydrated, and entertained, rain or shine. For the past few weeks, items going to the beach have been growing like weeds throughout our house: clothes and bathing suits and beach cover-ups (you-know-who needs a different outfit for each day!), ice chests and groceries, toys and games for the kids, soda, beer and wine for the grownups, beach chairs and bicycles and pumps and helmets, even fly swatters and a couple of battery-powered fans—you name it and we’re taking it. Somehow everything will get crammed into one of our two cars (note the plural) prior to takeoff. I cringe: we look like the Beverly Hillbillies except we’re not motoring down Rodeo Drive, waving to the stunned locals; we’re stuck in traffic on Route 1. I hide behind my sunglasses.
Moving in to our home-away-from-home is the first order of business. Load, carry, drop, and repeat. Stock the fridge. Get ice. Make the beds. Put clothes away. Get more ice. Order sushi. Has anyone seen the baby? And it’s only Day One…
If the weather cooperates, Days two, three, four, five, and six will all begin and end on the beach. Umbrellas and chairs are set up, sometimes in rows, sometimes in a huge horseshoe or even a giant powwow circles depending on the time and tide. Beach wagons loaded with buckets and shovels are hauled across the blazing hot sand by strong dads; coolers full of drinks and snacks are stashed in the shade. Games—volleyball and Can-Jam—are unpacked and set up; NBC should cover this because the Paris Olympians pale in comparison to our own young beach athletes. As for Day Seven—well, we don’t talk about Day Seven, our last day. It lurks just offshore like a giant white shark.
But what if the weather doesn’t cooperate? That’s when all the years of training and planning and practicing pay off. Board games, card games, jigsaw puzzles, arts and craft projects, indoor bowling, (did I just say INDOOR BOWLING??), pizza or ice cream making…believe me, rainy days at the beach are not for the faint of heart! Now if you were to provide me with a good book and some peas-and-carrots, my rainy day would pass quicker than an afternoon nap. But alas; that’s in another universe, not this one.
All three generations of this boisterous family thrive on Beach Week; they spend the other fifty-one weeks of the year either reliving this year’s adventure or planning the next one. Well, all but one. Me? I just apply more sunscreen, hold my breath, and hang on tight. I think about all those geese up in the far-off tundra fields of Canada preparing to head south in another month or two. It’ll be a long flight, but geese know how to travel light. Sigh…
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.
His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.
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