You’ll Never Sell Me on Oceanfront Property

For reasons I cannot disclose at this point in time, I am currently housed in a hotel that’s situated on a stunningly beautiful beach. However, when contemplating said beach the past few days, watching people jump in at around six in the morning, I came to an epiphany:

I really don’t like the beach that much.

I suppose I should clarify. I don’t mind sand; I absolutely loved my trip with IP to the Great Sand Dunes in Colorado, and enjoyed burying my feet in the warm (then hot!) sand in southern Oregon. I also enjoy water; put me in a pool and I’ll doggy paddle all day. Take me to Lake Michigan in the summer (Michigan side, please) and I’ll frolic for hours on end. Put me on an Atlantic or Pacific beach, though? Um, I think I’ll skip that, thanks.

I think it’s a combination of things—not only do crowds get to me, but the idea that a shark might me make his or her afternoon snack is a disturbing thought. On the Atlantic side, I wasn’t thrilled with the Portuguese Man o’ War warnings that I had to observe, so that even the beach combing was a bit dampened. On the Pacific side, I was happy enough observing the cold ocean from a safe distance while driving down the Pacific Northwest (we even saw a whale’s mist breaking the surface—a truly awesome sight that I’ve failed to mention in my as-of-yet non-existent post on this summer’s vacation), but didn’t enjoy it so much when I was chest deep in water in October 2006, trying to learn how to surf (an unsuccessful endeavor) in Hawaii. I imagined a tiger shark suddenly seizing me from underneath; when my then-underdeveloped upper body muscles gave out, I paddled weakly back to shore, forfeiting the rest of my lesson (at $60/hour, with about 40 minutes left) with gladness in my heart.

There has been one time when I loved the ocean. The year was 1986 and my parents and friends of my dad (definitely not of my mom—that’s another post, yo) took us to Colima, Colima, Mexico. I remember swimming without fear or reservation, but those days are long since over. You would have to turn me into an eight year old again to get the appropriate reaction, I believe.

So as I find myself yet again in front of a beach, the only coaxing I hear is “You have to get in the water!” (Except for my mom; she applauded me when I confessed to her that I didn’t really like the beach and urged me to stay away so that I wouldn’t be consumed, carried away by riptides or get too much sand in my bathing suit.) I am not altogether motivated; I would like to go for a run on the beach, and I’ll certainly take a dip in the hotel’s pool, but I’m not sure that I’ll be enjoying the warm ocean (though I’m sure that IP will leave an outraged comment and will probably call me as soon as he finishes said comment, staying on the phone with me until I at least get my feet wet). As for the snorkeling I’m told to partake in, I think it’ll take a miracle to get me into the water to do that. I must say, it’s like . . . meh.

My antipathy to the things most people find fun knows no bounds. I’ll be over in the corner enjoying the view as you all laugh and point at me from the water. Watch out, Jaws is behind you.