Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand - miles of them - leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues, - north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite.
There really is something weird about the lemming-like way we water-gazers congregate here at the beach in the high summertime.
Tents and umbrellas; kayaks and big-wheel strollers; shovels and spades; coolers and beer cozies, set out in windrows on the verge of the North American continent. We disciples pinkening above our summer novels, checking our children for dangerous ocean behavior.
Having spent pretty much all my adult life (excepting only the college years) within a short drive of the Atlantic, I too have been a regular participant in that Army’s annual march to the sea. And this is what I continue to see:
• Tattoos. All over.
• Last winter’s cheeseburgers. All under.
• New generations of girls in bikinis, now – disturbingly – the age of my daughter.
• Those extended family units, whose class-tensions and resentments remain appallingly clear, even among the sand and scanty cladding.
And yet…here I am. Again.
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