Another Day at the Beach

"You're right. It's awfully jungular now."

"What do you mean 'jungular?'" I asked.

"Of or having to do with a jungle."

"I don't think that's a word. Jungly, maybe."

Suddenly, though, nothing sounded right. Jungle. I thought about the word but couldn't define it on a bet. It is an old word, I thought, archaic. It has no contemporary meaning.

* * * * * * * *

Back from New York, but still on vacation, I decided to go to the beach and pick up on the surfer series again. Driving over, though, I began to have doubts and fears that I would not be able to do it, would not have the nerve or the luck I had before. Despair and disappointment began to form a cloud around me as I thought about the camera and lens I had just bought on eBay that would be here next week. Useless, I thought. They would never get used.

But the day was clear and bright and the beach white and beautiful. Driving toward the jetties, though, I realized that it was high tide and higher than normal due to the proximity of the Full Sturgeon Moon. The driving was not so easy. The choice was either to drive through the soft sand or through the sand packed with salt water, and wishing to do neither, I decided to park where I was. I turned my wheels and drove into the softer sand and immediately felt my car sink. Uh-oh. I put it in reverse immediately and the tires began to spin. I was stuck. I got out to look at the tires and they were not in deep at all. The car did not look stuck. It looked fine. There was nothing to do but get back in and try to gingerly get the wheels to catch some traction. No deal. Of course, I'd bought the cheapest tires I could get and they seemed to lack something, some purchase, as they began to spin and throw sand into the air. The car dropped another inch. The old Volvo's three inch clearance was nearly exhausted.

I started to get into the car again when I heard a voice cry out, "If you need some help, we can push."

Sheepishly, I assumed the pose of a schlemiel, shoulders raised, palms up, and got into the car. The two guys were older even that I, but with their pushing, the bucket of rust began to move.

In half a panic, I drove back up the beach where the beach was broader and firmer and parked the car again. No sinking. This time, I was fine. Shaken, I grabbed the little Holga and three rolls of film and began to walk. Hot. Bright. A boy and a girl with surfboards walked toward me up the beach. OK, I thought, I'll ask.

"Excuse me. . . . " They posed beautifully together. And as always, I pronounced the day a success already. For that, the drive was worth it.

Then came a father and a daughter. Then a girl I'd photographed a couple weeks ago.

In a little while, I was done. How had I managed it? I don't know.

And so I finished the day with an hour of body surfing, swimming hard, kicking my feet and arching my back until I felt the lift and then the glide, swimming back out without touching bottom but paddling as if I had a board, then floating and rising with the swell until the next set came in.

Now showered and slathered in cocoa butter, I sit on the veranda of the sushi bar alone once again. I wanted to see "500 Days of Summer" at the little art film house in town, but when I got there, the line was long and I thought it better to go another day. But before you say, "Good, the trip has had its effect," remember that I am still on vacation. I have not yet returned to work. It certainly will not take long for them to beat it all out of me.