All my life, the same thing:
"The beach! So much fun! OMG! Let's go to the beach! Beach beach beach! Nothing better than the beach! Sun, waves, coconut oil ... I can't wait! Let's go!"
And so, all my life, I've gone to the beach. Yes, the beach. Where Mr. Fun vacations. Where the soul exhales. Where steel drum rhythms dance through palm fronds. Where toes carve streams in the warm sand. Where gentle waves wash away your stress. These sand and salt water playgrounds are everywhere, and I've been to nearly all of them. Jamaica, Fiji, Singapore, Italy, Barbados, Hawaii, San Diego, Cancun. Beaches. Salt water.
Here I am at the beach, during my recent trip to Naples, Florida.
Look at me, enjoying the beach. I am even giving the thumbs up, showing my two-hand approval of the beach.
Well, I unfortunately don't have a picture from six hours after the beach. Besides, digital cameras can't successfully capture the scarlet purple strangled horse tongue color of sunburn.
So the beach? That beautiful beach, so lovely, so great? There's a sinister, evil, diabolical doppleganger to that beach. Yes, there is baby eye blue water, salted air, and crushed white sand. There's also the less discussed side, the side I've experienced every beach trip since I was six: The headaches of dehydration. The sand in your tennis shoes. The pecking sear of saltwater under your contacts. And yes, the fucking don't-even-pretend-you-understand-how-bad sunburn. This isn't your sunburn. The "oh-no-i-got-a-little-pink" sunburn. This is the dipped-in-molten-steel burn. The even-existing-hurts burn. This is burn, the same word used if you were to put your nutsack in a bunson burner. Sunburn. Burned by the 15 million degree ball of flame that sits above the earth. And that burn is everywhere: Tops of ears, bottoms of feets, underside of knees, fingernails, eyeballs, lips, hair. Sizzled, blistery, violet burn.
And before you say "but", let me stop you: this has nothing to do with preparation. I was prepared. I'm always fucking prepared for the beach. I've spent three decades perfecting my tactics. I'm so fucking prepared, I'm the cause of fury among anyone joining me for a beach visit, as my prep list takes two hours to complete.
Sunscreen? Yep.
On the tops of toes? Yep.
On the backs of ears? Yep.
Re-applied every hour? Yep.
Double-checked? Yep.
Cover every square millimeter of skin? Yep.
Hats? Yep.
Shade? Yep.
Shirts? Yep.
Constant rehydration? Yep.
Immediate coverage with fresh aloe? Yep.
Does any of this fucking matter? Nope.
Were I able to defeat this beach doppleganger, then I could perhaps see why the beach is such a loved destination for so many of you. But I can't defeat it, and will never be able to. So, next time you want to invite me to a beach, don't. Leave me at the resort, underneath the straw thatched bar, soaking in the shade, looking at you all from a distance, through binoculars, holding onto a cold Pacifico. Enough with "the beach" anyway .. There's lot of more landscapes on the earth beyond the beach .. Let's start visiting more of those .... mountains, deltas, streams, plains .. and all the other places that doesn't require taking off your shirt and sitting in the sun.