The First Beach Day: No Day At The Beach.

The First Beach Day: No Day At The Beach.
The Beginning Of What May Be My Final Summer In West Michigan

On Tuesday there were no calls for sub jobs above the elementary school level so I elected to go back to bed and sleep in. I woke up around noon and the forecast was for a high of 80. I had decided that this was the first beach day of the year.

I put together a good beach kit. One 2 quart Gatorade bottle full of Country Time lemonade. One pint of regular Bacardi rum. One empty Danasi bottle for mixing. One salami and provolone on sour-dough sandwich. One copy of The Great Shark Hunt. One old bedsheet to serve as a beach blanket.

I drove to the State Park campground to the most secluded place I could access. There were already retirees with quarter-million dollar campers staking out prime campground real estate three weeks or so ahead of Memorial Day weekend. I never understood the purpose of camping with a plasma screen TV, satellite dish, and a microwave, but that is what these affluent blue collar pseudo-yuppies consider to be roughing it.


Left: Rustic Life


I parked in a campsite that was close to my beach spot. This particular spot is only good before summer heats up, because a month from now this pristine stretch of Muskegon Lake beach will be disheveled with the juice boxes and empty Lunchables containers of the 11 year old brats from Grand Rapids and the Detroit Proper who would rather spend their holiday glued to a Playstation 3 than gazing upon waves, sunshine and sailboats.

I am sure I looked peculiar to the old bastards in their campers as I walked out to the sand with my aviators, my square cut swim shorts, and my polo shirt which looked like it belonged to a 1960s tennis pro. I purposely wear unbecoming clothes when I go out to the beach to drink and read alone so that no one who knows me feels inclined to bother me. I spread out my bed sheet and weighed it down with the lemonade and the disguised pint of rum. I took off my shirt and pulled out the empty Dasani bottle and held it over the sand outside the parameter of the sheet and poured in rum about one-third of the way...then I filled it the rest of the way with the lemonade, much of which spilled into the beach and onto my hand. I shook it up and took a swig, but it was a little too strong for me this early in the beach season, so I had to use the rest of the unspiked lemonade as a chaser.

Before I could get my book out a seasonal park ranger pulled up to the fanciest trailer near my car. Great, I thought, the old crank in the Winnebago didn't like the look of me, so he is going to get some 19 year old girl from Grand Valley State to force me to buy a permit. So I opened my book and rehearsed what I would say...I knew that it would be unwise to tell them that I would be working at another State Park, because I am sure this would get back to the boss. I looked up to see what was going on and the ranger and her truck were gone. I was pleased that I wasn't ratted out. Maybe this guy in the camper was alright after all.

I got through one essay in my book before more than half of my Drunk On The Beach© cocktail was done. I decided to take a walk. Despite my post-college lard, the rum gave me enough confidence to feel like I was Daniel Craig in Casino Royale. After all, he is fair featured and lifts weights, just like me!

I dipped my toe in the water and it was colder than the ice water from a carafe in a nice restaurant. If you drank it, your teeth would have hurt. I had noticed that during the drive in there was a smoky haze on Lake Michigan. Suddenly it occurred to me that the warm humid air was meeting up with the cold water and causing a bizarre brand of mist that you hardly see any other time of the year. This was a problem because the best way to go to the bathroom in a secluded part of the beach like this was to go out twenty feet and let things go ballast style. The cocktail I had made had filled my bladder and I didn't quite know what to do.

Only moderately conflicted, I walked down about three quarters of the way to the boardwalk where I found shrubs tall enough to conceal my public urination. Mid-tinkle I hear a ferocious "HOOOOOOOOOONK". A cruse tour was coming through the channel and there were people on the top deck with binoculars, whom were clearly watching me piss. I was a little perturbed, but then again, I did have my dick out on state property. It was not the first time and it sure wasn't the last. After I was done, I pulled my shorts up and made as many rude gestures as I could to the people on the cruse tour. "How the fuck would you like if I drove up to your toilet, assholes!!" I am not sure if I said that out loud or not. The Drunk On The Beach© cocktail was progressively taking its effect on my demeanor, not unlike Spider-Man's black costume. (More on this later.)

I wasn't sure if the police were on their way or not, so I strolled casually back to my spot. I packed up and got dressed since I felt that I was appropriately sun-kissed. It was only 4 in the afternoon and it appeared wise that I should maximize my experiences on this the first beach day. I decided to go up to Whitehall so I could go to the A&W/Long John Silver's. My favorite thing to do at the A&W/LJS was to get a poor-mans surf and turf. In a nice respectable establishment with cold carafes of water, a surf and turf is usually a lobster (surf, get it?) and a fillet mignon (turf-, clever, eh?) , or a sirloin and tuna steak. For a fellow like me a surf and turf is a Fish & More Combo # 3 plus a cheeseburger with a root-beer float.

I chose to take Scenic Drive from North Muskegon to Whitehall. It is about a 20 mile drive along the coast of Lake Michigan with more curves, turns,highs,lows and tricks than Amsterdam's red light district. Along Scenic Drive I imagine are a lot of rich people. I have had two jobs along Scenic Drive, at one of them I worked two summers as a Waiter at a beach lodge resort and one summer I spent as a park ranger. The homes along Scenic range from old Georgian houses, to fenced in McMansions, and even a few Frank Lloyd Wright knockoffs. For a while I have longed for a stretch of land on Scenic Drive, it would be a fine place to retire, I think.

The speed limit along most of Scenic Drive is mostly 35 MPH, it is certainly never more than 45MPH, and most of it is double solid lines, which indicates that passing is restricted. Once I got past the stop sign on Memorial, I booked it up to 60. Once I got past the block house and passed a Chevy Tahoe, I cranked it up to 75. Now and then I would hoot at female joggers, who were mostly women in their late 30s keeping fit enough to keep their rich husbands interested in them to the extent that they might get laid during their bi-quarterly vacation to somewhere with a better water front view than their 2 million dollar Lake Michigan homes. I don't know if the people in the houses on Scenic have a stake in such property for status or if they have taste.

After a few near crashes I was finally in the City of Whitehall. I drove up a hill which took me to main street, near where I took my first drivers test and where incidentally received my first speeding ticket at the tender age of 16, 3 weeks after I got my license. There was an accident up ahead...it appeared to involve a gold colored Plymouth mini-van. I hoped that no one was hurt, but I couldn't help but feel as though the aesthetic of the world was made better by the destruction of that nauseating symbol of exaggerated affluence and feigned family values.

I pulled into the Shell station that housed the A&W/LJS. The A&W was gone. So was the Long John Silvers. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!", my heart yelled out tearfully. Distraught and confused about the justness of the universe I decided to buy some gas at $3.12 per gallon, since I could not put my hands on my siphoning kit. I kept my music up loud as it was when I was jetting through Scenic Drive. I was playing the White Stripes' self titled debut album, which is a lot less disagreeable to the local rubes and hicks than the misogynistic rap music I might play on any other day that I am cranked up on spiked lemonade and driving like a madman.

I drove a quarter mile down from my broken dream to the Whitehall Burger King. The best part about the Whitehall Burger King is that it is up on a hill, like an old make-out spot in a 1950s movie. So, at least there was a peaceful place to enjoy your Whopper™. Plus, at this particular time there was a promotion for Spider-Man 3. . .there were game pieces where you could win a car, cash, or more food. I have won food on such game pieces numerous times. The game pieces allow you to choose the "Red Spidey" (good) or "Black Spidey" (dark, evil). Given the nice weather this day I felt inclined to choose the Red Spidey. I don't normally order the king size value meal, but I hadn't eaten that day (my sandwich layed untouched in my cooler) and I have an unnatural affection for the Spider-Man movies.

Upon getting my food I found that this particular establishment was out of the Spider-Man 3 promotional game pieces. Rage. But I politely drove to my overlook next to the other cars, and enjoyed my towering burger, my bucket of coke and my satchel of fries, sans the opportunity to win a Maserati. Let's be honest, it is not as though anyone who routinely orders the king size Stacker™ meal is capable of fitting in such a small sports car.

As I was eating my chili I head someone say, "M'am? . . . M'am?". I turned to look out the window and apparently someone was trying to get my attention. "You mean, Sir?" I said to the scraggly looking fellow with an unkempt beard, bermuda shorts, and a topaz colored Charlotte Hornets jackets, circa 1991. "Oh..yeah..Sir...sorry, I didn't know." Anyone who has seen me knows that it is difficult for me to be confused with a woman. This guy had called me "M'am" the same way 2nd graders call me "Mrs. McSaddle*" because they do not know the word "Mr."

*Names changed to protect the guilty.

There was a troubling aspect about this fellow. He was either deranged or hopped up on smack. His very presence was unsettling.

He said, "Yeah, so I need a ride up M-20 to eh...Rotheberry." "Sorry." I interrupted, " I'm not going that way." I truly wasn't, though even if I was going that way, I would have lied.

He insisted, " I'm not going to hurt you or anything. . .Hey man I really need to get to -" Suddenly he knows my gender! I am impressed! Maybe I should give him a ride!

"Look, get the fuck out of my face, okay?" I told him.

"Hey fuck you man! Fuck you rich assholes who think you run the world!" he said to the guy sitting in the dirty 1998 Chevy Lumina.

Uncharacteristic of me, I got out of my car, still holding my chili, "Look get the fuck out of my face before I bust your fucking head open, understand?!?" I had chosen the Black Spidey.

The old couple in the late model Buick three spaces away rolled up their car window, either to protect themselves from the ensuing blood shed or the exchange of threats and profanities that is more common between the Crips and Bloods in Compton than between a transient and a substitute teacher in Whitehall, Michigan.

The hobo got a look at my 6'1, 240lbs stature and walked away, muttering unintelligible profanities. I thought about throwing my Chili at him but I was enjoying it too much. I got back in my car and drove away.

I reflected upon the insanity of that day and I embarked upon the idea that in no way do I resemble a functional adult. But then again, If I were I probably wouldn't be able to enjoy my last summer in West Michigan.

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