The beach, it calls my name. I grew up 5 miles away the way the mythical crow flies from the best beach in the US, yet as a teen I was too self-conscious about my body to go to the beach. Plus, my mom was always, “You’ll get sand in your crack!” and “You don’t want to go ALL THE WAY DOWN THERE, do you?” I’m still not sure if she was referring to my crack or the beach.
So what if it was a 30-minute drive around and through traffic lights to get to the beach before the bridge opened during my 11th grade year? Add in the fact that I was super lazy even way back in my rearing years to pack up myself and stuff and lay out in the stupid heat just to get a sand in my crack, I didn’t go to the beach very often when it was out my figurative back door.
Living in Orlando affords us options when it comes to visiting the beaches. We have Cocoa Beach 25 minutes to our east and Tampa Bay/St Pete Beach 2 hours to our west-ish. We went to Cocoa Beach last summer with the girls, and we vowed we would never go there again. Rather than finding sugar-white sand in our cracks, we had to dig out black sand. Black sand and cracks don’t mix. We’re admitted beach snobs with our affinity for white sandy beaches and turquoise water with actual waves as we look down on the dark sand and murky water and 100s of Euromen banana hammocks.
Since having the children reach the age of consenting to what we mold their minds into thinking, I plan to spend several days of our summer vacation on the beach with my girls. It’s my plan to tweak their wee brains into Beach Bunnies who will want to go to the beach with me, but only to beaches that meet our high expectations.
It won’t be hard brainwashing them to think that this is the best way to beach.