As Summer Ends, Once More Unto the Beach

It’s a little chilly when I awaken, cooler than usual for so early in September, and I stand barefoot for a moment in the spot where the dog slept, where it is warm on the rug, thinking that I need to get a warmer house or a bigger dog.

“Are we going to the beach?” my older daughter asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“Because it’s kind of cold,” she says.

“Come stand over here,” I say.

So we stand together in the warm spot for a few minutes, then look outside at the gray sky, which threatens to ruin our holiday weekend. Just our luck: global cooling.

Because this was going to be a big beach day, the last beach day of the year, with food and football and significant idle time, which is what Labor Day weekend is about. Idle time. The last idle time of the year, before school and soccer and all that other stuff kicks in.

“We really going to the beach?” asks a little girl, stepping from the bedroom and rubbing her face awake.

“Sure,” I say.

“My feet are cold,” she says.

“Stand over here,” her big sister says.

For breakfast, they have doughnuts and sliced kiwi; the kiwi they eat with their fingers. The doughnuts they eat with a fork.

Then we pile into the car and head toward Laguna. At 11 a.m., several other vehicles still have their headlights on.

“It’s, like, foggy out, Dad,” the boy says.

“I don’t see any fog,” I tell them.

“It’s everywhere, Dad,” my lovely and patient older daughter points out.

“It’s just a little fog,” I say.

And we reach the beach, where the fog lifts to expose an ocean that is slate gray and a sky that’s in turmoil. For a moment, the kids think I have brought them to watch a hurricane.

“I think I see a water spout,” my older daughter says.

“I think I see the sun,” I say.

Sure enough, the sky eventually brightens and the sand begins to warm. The kids splash off into the ocean, jumping up when the waves arrive, then ducking under, till a wave flips them backward and up onto the beach.

Pretty soon, other families arrive. Then there is a football game, dads against the kids, one of those gridiron mismatches you see early in the season like this. An easy first game against a smaller opponent. Next week, the dads play Penn State.

“Let’s go in the water,” someone yells, and both teams head for the surf, diving into the water after their tough game, rinsing off the sand and the sweat, floating on Boogie boards and tossing the football some more, turning the ocean into testosterone soup.

“My head’s like an aquarium,” brags the boy after a few minutes.

“Mine too,” I say.

For 45 minutes, the dads and boys rest and roll atop the ocean, seawater going in their ears, seawater going out. Sea creatures going in their ears. Sea creatures going out.

Zooplankton. Small crustaceans. Maybe a jellyfish or two. Now and then, a baby shark.

So we float a little longer, ride a few waves, then float some more, thinking about guy stuff--point spreads and processor speeds and Daryl Hannah. To this day, a lot of guys cannot go near an ocean without thinking of Daryl Hannah. Just for a moment, she splashes in our heads.

“Let’s eat,” someone says, so we crawl ashore and fire up the tiny grill and slap on a hundred hot dogs, take them off, then slap on a hundred more.

And as the sun fades and the radio plays, we bid so long to the beach, the place where summer is at its best. A festival, really. The last bacchanal before fall.

Down by the water, two older revelers are walking, holding hands. As we watch quietly, they share a kiss.

“Ever see grandparents kiss?” I ask the little girl.

“No,” she says.

“It’s a beautiful thing,” I tell her.

“It is?” she asks.

“Especially at the beach,” I say. “If I’m ever a grandparent, I’m going to kiss like crazy.”

“You are?” she asks.

“I’m planning on it,” I say.

She thinks about this a moment. A wave comes in, nearly stealing our cooler.

“You’re going to kiss Mom?” asks the little girl.

“Almost exclusively,” I say.

“That’s disgusting, Dad,” says my older daughter.

“Yeah, Dad, I’m trying to eat,” says the boy.

“I’m going to kiss like crazy,” I whisper to the little girl.

“Me too,” she says.

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Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is [email protected].