Our Vacation, Part Two

The drive to the Cape was an uneventful and quiet three hours. This was in sharp contrast to when the kids were little. When they were small, the van would be filled with the excited chatter of squeaky voices as they played with their toys and made plans for the adventure ahead. That was then. Now they’re older. Now they’re sleepy. It’s not that they’re worn out from the excitement of leaving. It's that they’re worn out by packing in all of the excitement the night before we leave.

Things stayed pretty quiet for the next two and a half hours, until we approached the bridge. That's when interest started to pick up with all the familiar sights and sounds- the bridge up ahead, the brush pines growing in the sand, me getting angry at the other drivers...

Getting through the traffic and over the bridge is always the first major milestone. Making it onto, and and then off of the rotary alive is the next. But after that, it’s a quick pit stop and a short half hour of congested driving until we reached our first destination.

Our first stop was the Town Office to get a beach sticker. The cost of a beach sticker is one of the few things I know of that goes up faster than the price of gasoline. It always feels like a crapshoot as to whether I should invest in one or not. If the weather for the week is beautiful, we would be going to the beach a lot and we would get our money’s worth. If the weather is lousy, I would then be forced to make my kids go to the beach in the rain in order to get my money’s worth. The drawback here is that I might feel guilty as I sat van waiting for them to make the cost of the sticker worthwhile. After deciding it was worth the risk, Jake and I walked through the drizzle to get the sticker... just like every other year.

Since we couldn't check into the cottage until later in the day, we went from the Town office to the beach. It took me years to wise up to this idea of going directly to the beach after getting a sticker. I’m not sure why. In years past, instead of going to the beach, we would kill the time before check-in by driving around, or going to the playground, or in desperation, hanging out at the grocery store parking lot. Finally one year I got the brainstorm: “Hey, we just got a beach sticker. Why don’t we go to the beach??!” Not only was it a brilliant idea, but this had the added advantage justifying my leaving at the crack of dawn “to beat the traffic”. We could make the three hour drive, get a beach sticker, drive to the beach, and still be there before most vacationers were dragging themselves out of their cottages.

Sure enough, when we arrived at the beach, it was nearly empty. Part of this was because of the early time of day, but part was also due to the just departed early morning rain. We parked, lugged out all of our belongings. The kids grabbed the tent and the cooler and the towels while I took off my sneakers, to leave behind, cleverly stashing my bag of change inside them. We headed down to the beach to stake out our claim. By now, the sun was struggling to break through, but the sand was still pretty damp. We found “our spot”, set up our beach tent, and laid out the towels. While some of us went to explore the shore for rocks and shells, Sam hauled out his metal detector and began sweeping the sands behind our tent.

I walked the shore with the others, looking for rocks to put in the rock tumbler back home. This was despite the fact that I already had about four or five bags of rocks from the vacation of two years earlier, still sitting in the basement waiting for their turn to be tumbled. At the time, I figured the trip was likely to be our last, so I collected way more rocks than was “necessary”. I figure I should be able to get them all tumbled in another three or four years. This, of course, did not stop me from collecting more.

Looking for rocks and shells is a lot like going to the flea market. You stroll along, examining every minute detail, looking for the one gem that's just right and makes it all worthwhile. It takes a lot of patience. But patience wears thin and the longer you walk along, the less picky you get. Not wanting to leave empty handed, you begin settling for items of, shall we say, “lesser quality". And little by little, you blindly collect more and more stuff.

Another other way it’s like a flea market, is that once this happens, you better be prepared to carry back whatever you find. This is often a problem, especially if it’s the first outing. Too many times in the past I’ve forgotten to bring along a bag or bucket with me, so I end up popping the occasional pebble into the pocket of my swim suit. By the end of my walk, I’m clutching my suit as I head back to our tent with my pockets bulging. This is not a good thing. The site of me in a swimsuit is bad enough. The site of me clutching a swimsuit that looks like it's bloated with some grotesque form of cellulite is enough repulse anyone. But I was prepared for rock collecting this time, so we headed off with my Zip-lock bag, ready for the hunt.

This particular beach has some wonderful little rocks further down the shore. Unfortunately "further down the shore" puts them in the “Private Beach’ section. You can tell this is the private beach section because of the signs that say “Keep Out. Private Beach”. But this was early in the morning and there were only a couple of people on the other side, so we paid it no attention. After all, what could happen? Do they have their own version of lifeguards over there, saving their citizens from the flotsam that drifts over the border? I doubt it. After all, where would they sit? There we none of those tall chairs. And how would anyone be able to tell we weren’t “one of them”? We’re all just people, right? As their side of the border began to get more crowded (with all of ten people), it became clear how wrong I was.

Right off the bat, these people spotted us as the interlopers we were. You could just feel it. At first I tried not making eye contact with them and instead made innocuous small talk with my kids as we walked along looking out at the ocean. I'd say things like, “Wow, look at that water!” Or “Sure looks like it's going to be a nice day!” But clearly I wasn’t fooling anyone. I was like the country bumpkin in the big city who keeps looking up at all the tall buildings. I was just making things worse.

View from "The Forbidden Zone". Note the Common People in the distance.

When I finally summoned the courage to glance over at the Beautiful People, it only confirmed my worst fears. I could see I was being examined with a squinty glare that screamed, “You. Don’t. Belong. You. Must. Die.” I recognized this look. It was the look of the Borg. I started to slink away. I felt like a wolf in an ill-fitting chicken suit who was caught leaving the hen house.

Who was I kidding? I knew I didn't belong here. I look like someone who should be collecting their trash, or worse, like someone who would go through their trash- which in a way, I guess I was. I knew it was time to head back. “Well”, I thought to myself as I slinked back over the boundary, “If that’s what you people are like, you can keep you high livin’ and your shiny boats and your fancy beaches. And now if you don’t mind, I’ll be leaving... with a bag full of your rocks!" Take that suckas!

As I headed back to the tent I saw that Sam was still sweeping his metal detector over the sands, looking for treasure.