Ocean City, MD

We're at the beach.

We've had beautiful weather so far, but today is cloudy. D is Guitar Hero-ing it, so here I am.

Being at the beach with my family means three things. Eating, sun, and mini-golf. It's hard to say whether those are written in order of importance or not. I think they are.

The eating never stops: full breakfasts of fresh fruit, donuts, eggs, Taylor's Pork Roll, blueberry buckle, coffee, juice, whatever you want, may beloved Ganny will dish up. I think she's probably earned sainthood from the Catholic church just from the number of made-to-order breakfasts she's cooked in her lifetime. We hungry masses descend upon her every holiday. Lunch usually consists of a visit to the local Italian deli, DeVito's (quick description here) over on the next block. It's wonderful. There's a woman who is usually behind the counter (I don't know her name), who I love seeing each summer. She has a tall gray bun and a long, soft, wrinkled face. She is always in a dress and full white apron. She was old and gray twenty years ago when I first began noticing her; I'm sure she was there prior to that, and so she must be about 80 now. She and her sons run the business that her father began. Subs and pizza, with Utz's potato chips and a Coke - make up the late afternoon lunches. And of course, we are on the east coast, so what would an evening be without a cocktail hour at five PM? Complete with cheese and crackers, of course. Dinner arrives shortly afterwards. After so many years, we have our routine. One night is fried chicken and sweet corn, one night steamed crabs and shrimp. Grilled hamburgers and Veinies (steak sandwiches) another evening. One night is appetizer night - a smorgasbord of yummy all for my grandmother, who always schedules beach week over her birthday. So much food, so little time. The dinner list goes on, but I think I should move on.

I got creamed in mini-golf last night. I scored a whopping 47 on 18 holes, the lowest score of all nine of us. Even my 9-year-old cousin beat me. By five strokes. Yeah, I know.

In spite of my love of being here, the beach illustrates a paradox in my life. I love the beach. But I hate the ocean. I mean, I don't hate the ocean. I love standing on the shore, looking out at that great expanse, listening to the surf. I love the sand under my feet, I love the look of the beach after a storm. But don't ask me to go in there. I hate the feel of the salt and sand scraping against me. I hate the thought of all the creatures that swim in it swimming with me. (Although I am amazed by the quantity and diversity of life that must lie under the surface, I don't actually want it near me. And yes, I know a lot of it is far away, but much of it is far too close for my liking.) I am terrified of the strength of the water. This week, the riptides are frequent and strong, which adds to my awe and respect for the way God created the oceans and tides. I'm staying away, thank you very much.

Stay away, that is, unless my Uncle Bruce decides to throw me in. There's absolutely nothing I can do to avoid that force of nature.