Southern California Beach Scaredy Cat

As the youngest, I swung the plastic pails and shovels carrying as much as I could. With my feet in barely-buckled sandals, I merrily skipped out the door to meet my Dad who was packing up the trunk of our convertible. The large cooler was filled with goodies for our outing: bread, mayo, mustard, lettuce, tomato, ham, swiss cheese, dill pickle spears, potato chips, grapes, bottles of coca-cola and a thermos of cherry flavored Kool-Aid. My mother came out in a straw hat, beige shorts and a white shirt tied around her small waist; with her ivory skin, black hair and full lips, she looked like a movie star. Carrying a large straw tote, filled with supplies for our outing: suntan lotion, hats, sunglasses, and under one arm carried several scratchy, mustard-colored woolen blankets from the Army-Navy surplus store. My oldest brother had gone somewhere for the day with his friend Karl. My brother Alfred, the middle child was carrying towels and comic books.

As the car reached the beach, we still had a three-block trudge to the ocean. I almost regretted arriving at our destination because it meant the finale of my daydreams. But as soon as I saw the pink sign that would welcome us, I was eager for the pleasure the cool water would offer.


At the gangplank, we removed our sandals, then my brother and I ran barefooted across frying sand until we found a spot. My parents followed. After unloading our things, my parents would settle on one blanket, and there would be another one for us. Alfred quickly claimed a place in the sand for digging, and I still shedding my sundress, with swimsuit underneath, shouted for him to wait for me. 

The damp sand was chilly from the tide. We dug a hole deep enough to accommodate our bodies, and when our work was done, we took turns sliding into the hole, being a mummy. I topped off the look by grabbing my white plastic sunglasses, placing them on him. In glee we giggled, called for our father to look, and he snapped photos of our masterpiece.


Then it was time to hit the water. A few weeks earlier my father held me in the ocean and had me kick my legs, but he hadn't sufficiently taught me how to breath, and he let me go, I panicked, and swallowed a massive amount of water. This technique worked for him as a child, in a lake, but in a deep ocean, it was crude for my sensibilities and what remained was a great fear of water.


I looked around to see where the lifeguard was stationed. A suntanned teen in red bathing trunks stood at the foot of his wooden perch. He was chatting with a teenage girl in a two-piece bathing suit, but kept one hand on the whistle around his neck. Although the lifeguard was at his post, I was troubled he wasn’t scanning the beach. After a while, I quashed my anxiety, and tiptoed over stones, and shells, just enough to get wet somewhere between my knees and thighs, where I could stay on my feet.