last September, awakening only as taxis and rental cars line up to deposit us along the beach -- families with toddlers, college kids on break, retirees seeking to warm themselves under the California sun, and our own motley crew. Together we break upon the pier like a tidal wave as she rubs her winter-sleepy eyes, stretches, and turns on the coffee for us.
After finding a parking space on our fifth tour down the strip, we put our name in for a table at Breeze, which has a twenty-minute wait, and wander to the edge of the pier to watch the boats in the Pacific. The smell of coconut oil wafts up from the sun worshippers down below, but the sound of the waves camouflages most of their laughter and music.
"Don't worry, Anna." Red shakes his head at the undulating tangle of people below. "The beach near the house doesn't get nearly as crowded as this. The rental community has a private lease, so only the folks using the houses can be on the beach."
"Yeah, the old folks," Frankie whispers.
"So what do you think?" Red asks me. "Pretty amazing, huh?"
"More than I imagined," I say.
"Present location aside, I like to pretend that we're mostly cut off from the rest of the world here. It's pretty quiet, other than the surfers. And the tourists. And the vendors. And all the screaming kids." Uncle Red sighs. "Remember when this place was still kind of a secret, Jayne?"
"That was a lifetime ago." Jayne stares out over the water as Red puts his arm around her and kisses her head. It makes her smile, just a little bit. I turn away, feeling like an intruder.
"Let's go see if our table is ready," Frankie says. "Anna, they have the best piña coladas here. Wait till you try them."
"Nonalcoholic, of course," Jayne says, pulling away from Red. Frankie smiles. "Virgins. Of course."
After lunch, including two of the best piña coladas, Frankie and I get in line for ice cream at Sweet Caroline's Creamery stand next door, Ultra Quick-Skinny be damned. Jayne seems to be feeling better, but I learned soon after Matt died that even something as simple as ordering grilled cheese from a diner menu can unleash a flood of memories impossible to corral.
As Frankie and I wait in line, completely canceling out our calorie-saving nonfat muffins and combined weight loss in just a few hours, we count thirty-seven sagging, sunburned old women who don't know that they've outlived the statute of limitations on wearing bikini tops. Frankie and I make a vow to never let the other out in public like that after thirty, no matter how good we think we look. The shock of lime and tangerine spandex against the backdrop of storefronts whose deep hues have been sucked gray and pale by years of warm ocean salt reminds me that we're an inconvenience, a passing fad the town endures each summer as she welcomes, sells, feeds, and exists solely for our entertainment. I picture all the shops boarding up their windows in the fall -- the signs unplugged, the saltwater taffy spinners cleaned and stowed away -- a whole town folding up into a tent and packed on the train with the elephants and fire-eaters.
Ice-cream cones in hand, we walk around the back of the stand along the pier where we waited for our table at Breeze. As I lick a runaway line of melted cherry chocolate ripple from my hand, I become hyperaware of our surroundings. The back-and-forth ancient lull of the tide. The cry of seagulls passing overhead. The smell of salt and fish carried on the warm breeze. With each step along the old wooden planks of the pier, tiny grains of sand that hitchhiked from the beach below are pulverized under our heels. Sand that traveled millions of miles over billions of years across shifting continents and churning oceans, surviving plate tectonics, erosion, and sedimentary deposition is crushed by our new sandals.
The cosmos can be so cruel.
"Frankie, look at this sand. Isn't it amazing that --"
"Shh -- Anna, check it out. No, not now. Don't look yet."
"Don't look at what?" I
After finding a parking space on our fifth tour down the strip, we put our name in for a table at Breeze, which has a twenty-minute wait, and wander to the edge of the pier to watch the boats in the Pacific. The smell of coconut oil wafts up from the sun worshippers down below, but the sound of the waves camouflages most of their laughter and music.
"Don't worry, Anna." Red shakes his head at the undulating tangle of people below. "The beach near the house doesn't get nearly as crowded as this. The rental community has a private lease, so only the folks using the houses can be on the beach."
"Yeah, the old folks," Frankie whispers.
"So what do you think?" Red asks me. "Pretty amazing, huh?"
"More than I imagined," I say.
"Present location aside, I like to pretend that we're mostly cut off from the rest of the world here. It's pretty quiet, other than the surfers. And the tourists. And the vendors. And all the screaming kids." Uncle Red sighs. "Remember when this place was still kind of a secret, Jayne?"
"That was a lifetime ago." Jayne stares out over the water as Red puts his arm around her and kisses her head. It makes her smile, just a little bit. I turn away, feeling like an intruder.
"Let's go see if our table is ready," Frankie says. "Anna, they have the best piña coladas here. Wait till you try them."
"Nonalcoholic, of course," Jayne says, pulling away from Red. Frankie smiles. "Virgins. Of course."
After lunch, including two of the best piña coladas, Frankie and I get in line for ice cream at Sweet Caroline's Creamery stand next door, Ultra Quick-Skinny be damned. Jayne seems to be feeling better, but I learned soon after Matt died that even something as simple as ordering grilled cheese from a diner menu can unleash a flood of memories impossible to corral.
As Frankie and I wait in line, completely canceling out our calorie-saving nonfat muffins and combined weight loss in just a few hours, we count thirty-seven sagging, sunburned old women who don't know that they've outlived the statute of limitations on wearing bikini tops. Frankie and I make a vow to never let the other out in public like that after thirty, no matter how good we think we look. The shock of lime and tangerine spandex against the backdrop of storefronts whose deep hues have been sucked gray and pale by years of warm ocean salt reminds me that we're an inconvenience, a passing fad the town endures each summer as she welcomes, sells, feeds, and exists solely for our entertainment. I picture all the shops boarding up their windows in the fall -- the signs unplugged, the saltwater taffy spinners cleaned and stowed away -- a whole town folding up into a tent and packed on the train with the elephants and fire-eaters.
Ice-cream cones in hand, we walk around the back of the stand along the pier where we waited for our table at Breeze. As I lick a runaway line of melted cherry chocolate ripple from my hand, I become hyperaware of our surroundings. The back-and-forth ancient lull of the tide. The cry of seagulls passing overhead. The smell of salt and fish carried on the warm breeze. With each step along the old wooden planks of the pier, tiny grains of sand that hitchhiked from the beach below are pulverized under our heels. Sand that traveled millions of miles over billions of years across shifting continents and churning oceans, surviving plate tectonics, erosion, and sedimentary deposition is crushed by our new sandals.
The cosmos can be so cruel.
"Frankie, look at this sand. Isn't it amazing that --"
"Shh -- Anna, check it out. No, not now. Don't look yet."
"Don't look at what?" I
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