When I was a kid, the crowded beaches seemed to have as many transistor radios as people. From almost every towel and beach chair, New York’s WABC blasted all the top hits…. over and over. Sometimes the biggest hits even got “instant replay” status.
The energy of all this was fun ~ the first 2 or 3 times. It didn’t take long to discover I much preferred almost any beach to these, which were (are still are) popular by virtue of proximity to civilization and a ride-and-game-filled boardwalk.
So I had a mini-meltdown the other day when visiting one of our favorite beaches, with its sprawling stretches of white sand, no commercial riff-raff and one couple who apparently felt that everyone else would appreciate their blaring radio.
I’ll even admit that the song playing at the time of my breakdown was one I kind of liked. But I didn’t want to hear it then, nor the constant noise that would inevitably flow from the little box under their umbrella for the next who-knows-how-many hours.
No. Not acceptable.
I go to the beach for the sand, sun and surf. I like to hear the seagulls squawking, the waves tumbling, the caps of suntan lotion being flicked up and down. I like to see the shells that wash ashore, let my feet get buried by the tide going in and out. I like to dive under the waves, and float on their tops. I like the expansive sky, ships on the horizon, fishermen fishing, even children squealing with delight or building a castle moat.
The pleasures of being at the shore do not include hearing the top 40, or any other choice played at everyone else’s mercy. If you can’t enjoy the beach without it, then at the very least have the courtesy of turning down the volume. (Way down, please.) Or, gosh, how about an iPod? Hello?
So I packed us up and moved as far down the beach as possible, where the intrusive radio could not be heard. And there, I found ~ and made ~ peace. Blessed peace. All was not lost.
