MMTT4S - Field Study of the Pelican, Seagull, and Fatted Tatted Puffy Pink Clueless Vacationer

Captain's Log: The end is near; Surfside Beach, SC

The on-site lab - tough digs

Field notes taken from observations in my on-site laboratory (a beach chair sitting in the sand a few steps from the Atlantic Ocean): 

Subject: Pelican
Observation: Amazing glider; Great taste in food - sushi; Enjoys company of other pelicans at times; Uncanny ability to ignore other birds, humans; although water landing is incredibly awkward, it works; habitat - floating on the ocean, gliding over the water and beach, perching on pier and dock pilings, pretty much anywhere there's fish.
Conclusion: If reincarnation turns out to be a thing and I can't come back as Will Smith, I'll take "pelican" please.



Subject: Seagull
Observation: Plentiful; seem to always be hungry; adept at snatching minnows, tiny crustaceans, Cheetos, and spent bottle rockets from both sand and waves; often disrespected by little girls running after them and bratty tween boys trying to tag them with sidearm shell slings; as a result, they must always be on their toes...er, webbed feet...and have the maneuverability in the air of Top Gun fighter pilots; habitat - wherever there is a body of water or Walmart parking lot.
Conclusion: the pigeon of the beach, which makes it better than a pigeon, but that doesn't say much. Still, spotting a seagull or hearing its cry takes you to a happy place. If you like the coast, that is.

Subject: Human beach goer (scientifically labeled as "Fatted Tatted Puffy Pink Clueless Vacationer")
Observation: Obese. Yet, somehow, that doesn't stop them from wearing skimpy swimsuits. They love body graffiti, especially the young adult females. They seem to have experienced numerous permanent reminders of temporary feelings. Young adult males seem to have lost all body hair that would, otherwise, naturally adorn chests, legs, arms. Except for those of the species that have an extreme amount of back hair. In those cases, no hair has been removed from any visible location on the subject. These may actually be coastal bears and not humans. The sun prompts various reactions in the subjects. Some of these are widespread. For instance, the vast majority seem to engage in a sort of sun-worshipping activity of prostrating themselves on large towels or seated in short chairs exposing themselves to the sun for hours. Curiously, many of these subjects retreat beneath colorful umbrellas for periods of time, as though the sun is displeased with them and has banished them from its sight. This ritual is repeated daily causing a change in subjects' skin tone from pasty white to fire engine red. This is one way to distinguish the FTPPC Vacationer from the indigenous Perma-tan Burrowing Local. The Local has a discerning dark tan hue that permeates all dermal layers due to a lifetime usage of SPF4 or below. Plus, the Local usually doesn't appear during the summer months except at just before dusk, for a few minutes at sunrise, and on Saturday mornings during the great Vacationer migratory shift. During the summer months, Locals hunker down in their domiciles, only venturing out when necessary, blending in with the Vacationers as inconspicuously as possible. Vacationers also participate in numerous activities when not reclining motionless. Certain subjects, typically the younger and older of the group, are obviously fascinated with seashells and cannot seem to collect enough of them. Some subjects are more competitive and participate in various types of games. The more creative types mold sculptures from the sand. The younger of these subjects have an affinity for medieval architecture. For some strange reason, a few subjects allow themselves to be buried up to their necks in the sand. They even find this enjoyable. On rare occasions, an elderly male treasure hunter will emerge wearing a headset and holding a contraption that he'll wave back and forth across the sand while walking down the beach. When the apparatus indicates an object has been located, the treasure seeker will dig down and will victoriously unearth rusty Corona bottle caps, lensless sunglass frames, roofing nails, Chuck E. Cheese arcade coins, and fake Rolex watch bands. The subjects take to the water as well. Many seem completely out of place and find their footing to be uneasy at best. From time to time, sun-worshipers wade thigh deep or kneel down in shallower water and unsuccessfully attempt to camouflage the fact that they are relieving themselves in public. The children spend more time in the water than their adult counterparts. Often, they will take along various flotation devices called rafts, boogie boards, inner tubes, and other inflatables and will ride the waves, or completely wipe out, tumbling over and over as though caught in the spin cycle of a gigantic salt water washing machine while their board rockets skyward in the opposite direction. In addition, while engaging in the sunning ritual previously mentioned, a large majority of Vacationers drink copious amounts of alcohol, which leads to entertaining versions of activities like football toss, which ends with one participant running at break-neck speed towards the oncoming waves with the intent of making a glorious diving catch. It's called break-neck speed for a reason, by the way. I think the ocean enjoys playing the role of defensive back at times like these, because it is very good at it. The result usually involves the intended receiver being knocked head over heels by a breaking wave as the ball splashes a few feet beyond. Occasionally, the receiver gets taken out by a squad of boogie boarding 9-year olds, a preschooler refilling her sand bucket, and a grandmother who never saw the inebriated sprinter because she had suddenly bent over to pick up yet another scallop shell, causing a massive pileup, lots of tears, a lost shell, a broken boogie board, and an incomplete pass. Interestingly, the vast majority of Vacationers have some instinctual alarm that alerts them when it's time to evacuate the beach front and temporarily head indoors. Usually somewhere between 4 and 5 PM. It's like some seaside shift bell rings in some strange frequency only audible to their kind. In largely unsuccessful efforts to wash away a day of sun, sand, and suds, many Vacationers change outfits and flood local seafood mega buffets where they engage in crab leg pile-building, more alcohol consuming, and crying (at least the worn-out kids and granddads picking up the checks). Vacationers travel by foot (clad in either high top untied basketball shoes or slide sandals - both paired with black socks), rental one-speed bicycle, slow golf cart on major roads, Harley Davidson, parasail, and towable banana boat. The ritual repeats every day for a week, and then the flock returns home. After a brief period of sanity, a new flock replaces the old and participates in the same weekly activities.
Habitat: On the beach between the hours of 9 AM and 5 PM, seafood restaurants and bars afterwards; strangely, some Vacationers, who have traveled to the coast mind you, spend hours in and around swimming pools.
Conclusion: An invasive species that provides the local economy with an existence-enabling injection of money and the local populace with hours of unintended entertainment. Much like having a colonoscopy, eating a veggie burger, and paying full price to see a movie based on a DC Comics character - is it worth it? Well, maybe.

Saturday morning clearing

...in both directions!

Personal notes: While conducting my study, I found my favorite time in the lab was when I had few to no subjects to study - sunrise, twilight, and Saturday morning. Our Buffett song that corresponds to my published findings is titled "When the Coast is Clear" - definitely the refrain of an indigenous Local! It can be found on the Floridays album, one of my favorites.



Aloha, amigos!

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

MMTT4S - Scorching Sand, Drip Castles, UV Rays, and Inflatable Canvas Bronc Busting

Captain's Log: Started 23 July 2019, ended 6 August 2019; Beachside

Surfside Beach is just north of Garden City and just south of Myrtle Beach and east of land and west of the sea. It sits in the middle of South Carolina's Grand Strand. And it is grand indeed. This is a home for me. Spending my summers here at my grandparent's ocean front house, named Surf Pearl, etched salt air on my skin and injected salt water in my veins. I became a beach bum as soon as I could walk. In fact, Granny held my hand as I chased the waves back and forth, squealing with a mix of delight and trepidation as the foamy water rushed to grab my toes. As I grew, the beach became the ultimate summer experience. My siblings and I perfected beach playtime, the result of lots of practice spanning weeks at a time. 

Have you ever built a drip castle? We built lots of 'em. It's like a sand castle, but doesn't require tools - a sort-of poor kid's castle. You use wet sand and you let it drip from your fingers as you shape lumpy spires and walls. I think the movie set of Mordor in Lord of the Rings was modeled after one of my drip castles. Buckets and shovels are for the less adept.

My brothers and I would mount our trusty, albeit skin-eating, canvas rafts as we bested the ocean wave rodeo. These rafts were made of some space age denim that would repel salt water, shells, and shark attacks. No cheap plastic rafts for us. No sir. Dad was only buying rafts once every ten years and these were the puppies to make that span. Every night, our legs were chafed and nipples worn completely off. That, combined with the sunburn that tends to accompany the combo of 8 hours of sun exposure and no sunscreen, made showers straight up torture. The nightly ritual of painful washing was followed by the Solarcaine lineup, when Mom would douse our glowing red shoulders, tummies, and feet with that inexplicable spray that burned, cooled, and rubberized within about 5 seconds. The window unit in our bedroom was a welcome relief when we went to bed. By the time we awoke, though, we were buried under our covers as the room was an igloo. Had a timelapse camera been installed in the upper corner of our room, it would have revealed the bizarre migration of the Red-backed Whipper Snapper - going from completely on top of the sheets and blankets in only a pair of pajama shorts to total burial beneath all nearby coverings, including clothes, towels, pillows, curtains, and anything else within reach. We'd have burrowed down into the mattress had we been able. Oddly enough, the layer of ice that tried to encapsulate our bodies would immediately melt from the heat radiating from our sunburns. Amazing how nature works, huh?

We logged hundreds of miles walking to, and out onto, the Surfside pier. This occurred at least twice daily. After all, you could only bronco bust waves for so long and drip castle building was quite taxing on our creativity. I'll never forget walking across those old beams and their wet wooden smell. The surface temperature on that pier was a couple of degrees from being too hot for bare feet. That meant that bare feet were fine in our minds. Always on the lookout for discarded fish hooks and casting pier anglers, we'd go from rail to rail to watch the crusty old salts try to land a keeper. I remember how peaceful it was when we reached the end of the pier. The roar of the waves was a distant hum. No squeals, yells, and the general murmur of a crowd could be heard out there. The occasional lap of a wave against a piling or the call from a seagull were the only sounds to accompany the views of darker waters and endless vistas that stretched for 180 degrees. I often long to be there in that unique tranquility. Our trek to the end of the pier and back always increased in speed, though, as the heat on our feet finally started to register in our brains. I guess salt water veins may numb the body's nerves.

Speaking of heat - the scorching bright white sand that led up to the pier always presented a problem. Akin to the "the floor is hot lava" game, the white sand predicament was a challenge that could not be overcome, and it was real. Eventually, we'd just decide to make a run for it, usually after soaking our feet at the water's edge. I think the presoak kept a layer or two of skin on our feet. Otherwise, we'd have been walking on bones by the time we reached the pier - quite possibly our knee bones. This sand was a few degrees from becoming glass and is the hottest known naturally occurring substance known to man. Hotter than lava. Hotter than fish grease. Hotter than black vinyl car seats in August, but just barely. By about the third day, the bottom of our feet would peel. Off. In small wisps of skin chips. I guess our feet were prepping for the next day's battle, like sending in wave after wave of battalions, hoping at some point the war would end and peace would once again reign in Soleland. Our skin reproductive capabilities were truly tested during the summer.

Somehow, overnight our burns would become bronze glows, the soles of our feet would rejuvenate, our chaffed groins would heal, and our nipples would regrow - just in time to recreate the whole debilitating process the very next day. A pattern that repeated incessantly throughout the summer.

It's what we did as kids. And it was glorious.

I'll take it over video games and cell phones any day.

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

Since you've accompanied me on this long ride on memory wave, I'll reward you with a Buffett tune. "Floridays" is the title track from Jimmy's 1986 album and it reflects a desire to get away to the coast and, possibly, the good ol' days - before life's responsibilities produced the hectic busy-ness that it seems to do for most of us. Once again, the escapist's pursuit. While Buffett has done quite well preaching "the gospel from the coast," those "blue skies and ultraviolet rays" of his Floridays have enticed me my entire life, way before I'd ever heard of Jimmy Buffett. Even though he mentions Florida and a spot "on the corner of 'Walk' and 'Don't Walk' somewhere on US1," these Floridays really apply to any days on the coast. So, today's tropical tune offers a version of the heartfelt refrain that glides through my mind when I long for the beach, often the beach of my youth.

Aloha, amigos!

MMTT4S - I've Seen More Than I Can Recall

Captain’s Log: Summertime; As Willie says, “On the road, again.”

Aloha, amigos!

Miss me?

That’s what I thought. Of course you did. You see, in my Walter Mitty-esque brain, thousands of you have been wondering where my irregularly scheduled blog has been lately. Many of you are worried that I may have taken ill or gotten eaten by a shark. Some of you are panicked at the thought of carrying on much longer without my words of wisdom. A few of you are walking around in an audio-less stupor, not knowing what Jimmy Buffett song you should listen to.  To the masses of my readers, please accept my humble apology. I’ve been busy.

Having a restful and rejuvenating summer doesn’t register in my mind. When I’m greeted by colleagues with a greeting of, “I hope you’re well-rested and revitalized after the summer break,” I just stare back and try to mouth a reply, but nothing comes out.

I liken my time off to my hall closet – I try to cram as much into it as possible.

During the summer, I keep my “need to’s” to a minimum, completely ignore my “should’s,” and focus on my “want to’s” while carefully considering my “able to’s.”

That means I engage my gypsy soul by hitting the road.

Surfside Beach

DCI in Atlanta

Upon our recent return from Texas, I’ve been to Surfside Beach with my wife, son, and parents for a getaway; to Atlanta with my wife and son to see an amazing display of talent at the Drum Corps International Southeastern Regional Championships; to Wrightsville Beach with my wife to spend some time on the beach and water there with some dear friends; to Atlanta (again) with my fam to catch a Braves game and visit the College Football Hall of Fame; and back to Surfside tonight with my family to close out the summer (shhhh – don’t remind me). Those are my “want to’s” that have been influenced by my “able to’s.” In between, I’ve visited Bat Cave and Lake Murray to clean houses. Those are my “need to’s,” which help provide my “able to’s.”

Wrightsville Beach

Go Bravos!

In any case, I’ve been on the move and I love it. I’m not a homebody, that’s for sure. While I don’t return rested and relaxed, I do experience a change in attitude – no daily grind, no same ol’ scenery, no chores that I’ve put off for far too long. Life is just better out and about.

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

Today’s tropical tune is “Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes” – a Jimmy Buffett classic. It’s one of those non-negotiables at his concerts – songs that must be played to prevent a Parrot Head riot. It was originally released in 1977on his fantastic album by the same title. The song sticks to Buffett’s autobiographical formula that has worked well for him for years. The same formula that has created the Buffett persona that has driven the whole Margaritaville mystique and escapist empire. Although my own latitudes unfortunately haven’t varied much this summer (thanks to my “able to’s”) my summer location has been on a constant shift. This continual state of being on the go gets only a few moments of reprieve and reflection. And that’s fine with me. Like the song says, “…yesterday’s over my shoulder. So, I can’t look back for too long. There’s just too much to see waiting in front of me, and I know that I can’t go wrong.” Well, I can certainly go wrong, and often do, but that doesn’t stop me. Like, Buffett, who has been a worldwide troubadour since day one of his career, the relentless journeys satisfy some innate traveling jones of mine, produce more smiles and laughter, and, yet, seem a bit senseless to some. But, as Jimmy sings, “If we weren’t all crazy, we would go insane.”

Truth.

Aloha, amigos!

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