Rants from the Coastal Curmudgeon

The items that hold a higher ranking than “being at the beach” on my list of Things I Enjoy Most are few and, well, generally inappropriate for this blog. Suffice to say, though, that by adding “at the beach” to any of those same items thrusts them upward to a nearly incomprehensible level of enjoyment. It’s a true best-of-both-worlds situation for me. Reminds me of the Jimmy Buffett tune Smart Woman in a Real Short Skirt. No – more like sitting on a beach with my smart woman in a real short skirt listening to Jimmy Buffett sing the song by the same name. Wait…it’s really more like hanging out with my smart woman in a real short skirt and Jimmy on a South Pacific beach after a surfing session, playing guitars and singing Smart Woman in a Real Short Skirt. Oh, and Bob Marley is there. You get the picture.

Needless to say, there are very few things I enjoy more than being at the beach. Were it not for many of those who also travel to the beach, it would be Eden for me. For it is they who, on rare occasion, turn me into the Coastal Curmudgeon, the alias I will assume for this post.

Allow me to expound on these folks who, upon my most recent visit to my beloved Carolina coast, gave me pause to consider the interruptions they inflicted on my otherwise idyllic experience.

First, it is not appropriate nor acceptable to wear loosely laced high tops, baggy butt crack-showing, calf-length shorts, a wife-beater tank top undershirt, and a Major League flat-brimmed ball cap - with the brim at 5:00 - on the beach! It looks ridiculous in the mall. On the sand by the surf? Thoroughly idiotic. Try some board shorts. And if you must wear a shirt, you have options. Think loose and cool, or something with SPF protection. Headwear? Certainly. But keep in mind the words of my wise old grandfather-in-law – “I never seen a hat with the brim sewn on the back.” Oh yeah, trade in the heaps of cologne for a liberal application of sunscreen.

Speaking of apparel, let’s turn our attention to the ladies. Now, like most red-blooded males, I’m all for showing some skin. Bikinis are beautiful. If they fit. If you wear a size 18, don’t squish yourself into a 4. The saying, “If you got it – flaunt it” does not apply to fat, beer guts, rolls or hairy underarms. Is that a double standard? Damn skippy. We can’t pull off the magic you gals are able to create every day. There is a line, though. And I’ve seen some not only cross over that line but douse it in ranch dressing and cheese dip, roll all over it, wrap themselves in it,  try it on as a thong, then crush it underfoot, soak it in lighter fluid, set it ablaze, and eventually travel hundreds of miles past it.

I mentioned hairy underarms being taboo for the ladies. But where has the hair gone for the guys? Now this I kinda understand. If your woman likes a bare chest, then striving to please is not necessarily a bad thing. All I gotta say is it seems like there was a step in the evolutionary process that bypassed me in this area. If not, there is a whole lotta shaving going on. I find it laughable, and maybe a little sad, when I watch a dude go by with a silky smooth front torso and the back of a bear. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Looks silly, fellas. An all-or-nothing approach makes more sense. As for me, I’ll leave the waxing for my longboard.

This next complaint applies to the Garden City/Surfside beaches of South Carolina. If you don’t want to walk when you play golf on one of the Grand Strand’s many pristine golf courses, rent a golf cart. If you’d like to go from your rental house 5 blocks off the beach to the pier 4 miles away, take a road-worthy vehicle! Somehow, these 2 towns have seen it feasible to allow golf carts to travel on their busy streets. To make matters worse, those who drive these little misery-making machines refuse to move to the shoulder to allow the 24-vehicle build-up to pass. It’s as though they consider the streets to have been built for them. Bikers and joggers share the road and use common sense (usually), yielding to those machines made for tar and gravel travel. And many go at a higher rate of speed than the displaced duffers’ wagons. Town councils, can we not restrict golf carts to the secondary roads and require them to move over when safe? In the least, be considerate of those of us behind the wheel of a vehicle that can travel beyond 10 miles per hour. Otherwise, save the carts for use when driving a golf ball, like they were intended, not driving the rest of us slam nuts.

My final pet peeve deals with pets. Dogs are not humans. True, I prefer the friendship of a pooch to that of many a person I’ve known. But, if they are not allowed on a section of beach at certain times of the year, don’t take them out there. I can’t tell you how much I just love sifting through broken conchs, olives, and other assorted shells only to come across a pile of dog poop, in pristine condition, nonetheless. A wet nose of an overly friendly canine in my crotch makes maintaining the altitude of a kite somewhat difficult. Oh, and thanks for slobber-soaking that tennis ball my son and I were trying to toss about.

Mean-spirited? Maybe.

Uncompromising? Most likely.

Politically correct? Never.

You may hate me for what I said.

Haters gonna hate.

 

And Coastal Curmudgeons are gonna be crabby.

 

Be that as it may, I can’t wait to head back to my place in the sand.

Man and Mower - a Special Relationship

When comparing the weather this summer between South Carolina and Texas, it’s difficult to find two more opposite stretches of time. It rained on us maybe 2 days while we spent the majority of our summer break in Southeast Texas. I think those were the same two days that it did not rain back home in Carolina. Needless to say, when thinking of all the rain we were getting at home, I was truly concerned about its repercussions. Not the flooding, ruined crops, or even squelched vacation plans, but, rather, my back yard.

Buried in my back yard is a septic tank, and covering the ground is the fastest growing patch of St. Augustine grass known to man. A coincidence? I think not. With less than average rainfall, I could mow my back yard once every 5 days. The rainfall amounts we’ve received in Carolina are biblical. Really. About a month after arriving in Texas, I received a text from Noah with the plans for a new ark to be built in my hometown of Lexington, SC.  I immediately envisioned the top of my backyard just below the gutters of my house. It was highly likely that my backyard would be the new home to species of animals typically found in South American rain forest thickets. I guess those hard-to-track-down animals are why Noah contacted me.

So, on my 16-hour drive home, I had lots of time to contemplate how to attack the jungle of grass behind my home. My lawn mower, the kind you push, was way too meager to handle a job of such magnitude. And, besides, it was in the storage shed, buried somewhere in the depths of Jurassic Lawn. Initially, I considered going the machete route, but that sounded like way too much manual labor. Plus, I’m not sure I’m handy enough to take on a panther, which I’m positive must have taken up residence there, armed with anything less than a Sherman tank. Then I thought, “Why not a Sherman tank?” No - way too much damage control afterwards and I doubt my neighbor has one anyway. As I drove along, I crossed napalm, ninja sword, the Army Corps of Engineers, a herd of giant goats and various other less-than-ideal options off my list and eventually decided on flame thrower.

We finally arrived home a little after midnight. I felt like wine. Now, I know what you’re thinking – “Sure, after a long, tiring road trip, a nice glass of vino would be nice and would certainly help with the winding down process.” But that wasn’t it at all. I actually felt like wine, as though I-20 had stomped me like a vat of grapes for hours.  I didn’t want a drink of anything. I wanted to be six years old again and have my dad gently pick me up out of my seat in the car, carry me into the house and tuck me in my bed. I couldn’t talk my wife or son into being Dad, so I crawled on my own into bed without unpacking the car and without a glance toward the backyard. I would have to search for flamethrower dealers in the morning. Maybe my father-in-law would have one. I have a tack hammer and a yard stick. He has a basement and half of a garage filled with a table saw, radial arm saw, the hand tools section from Home Depot, an honorary doctorate from the John Deere Academy, and I think I saw the keys to a Sherman Tank hanging up by the basement door.

Next morning, I peeked out my window at my back yard, much in the same way my wife peeked into the mirror after I convinced her to save money and let me highlight her hair. Admittedly, I blinked a few times. I expected to be staring straight into tall, broad blades of grass. And maybe into the grisly face of a 47-pound ladybug.  Instead, I could see trees, my neighbor’s house, even the storage shed. The grass had only grown a foot tall, a little more in some areas!

“Honey, would you mind calling your dad and telling him I won’t need that flame thrower after all?”

So with high spirits I prepared for some quality time with my lawn.

I’m one of those guys who secretly enjoy mowing the lawn. It’s therapeutic. It’s just me, my mower, and grass in need of a trim. I can be creative – think professional baseball outfield patterns. I also have deep conversations with myself, solving lots of my world’s problems and coming up with earth-shattering ideas that I never really act upon. Now, when I say conversation, I’m using the actual definition that requires a speaker, message, listener, and response. I play both roles, and do so very well. Sometimes out loud. Thankfully, my hands are busy. Otherwise, I’d be utilizing hand gestures to get a point across to myself. My neighbors already have doubts about my sanity. I imagine them all standing at their windows, admiring my lawn care skills.

“Hey, sweetie. Come take a look at Walt across the street. Man, he is a pro behind that mower. Just look at that diamond and sun rays pattern! Such grace. And he makes it look so effortless. I admire him as a man and yard artist.”

“Um, is he talking to himself?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. He does that. You know how artistic types are, sweetheart.”

“Maybe he’s a genius.”

“Maybe…”

One day for grins and giggles, I’ll mow the yard without the lawn mower – just me and myself, having a nice long talk as I walk back and forth in some strange geometrical pattern in my front yard.

Mowing the lawn is also like washing the car to me– it’s a chore I publicly abhor, but secretly adore. The finished product makes the work worthwhile. Standing back and admiring one’s handiwork is fulfilling, especially if the job has been done well. But, as opposed to the lowly bucket, hose, and cloth used when washing the car, the lawn mower is more than a necessary tool. It’s Robin, Watson, Tonto -the proverbial sidekick. I usually give it a pep talk before taking the field and congratulate it after another fine performance. Sometimes we argue about its gas drinking problem and the occasional smoking, but, all-in-all we have a solid relationship. We’ve been together for nearly 15 years. It comes from a great family – Craftsman. No fancy self-propelled, push-button, attached bag shenanigans. It’s all real 6 horse power, mulching blade goodness. Oh, and, I can turn it on with one stroke…every time.

Back to the job at hand. I was a bit worried how my lawn mower would respond when faced with grass that rose quite a few inches above its gas cap.

So, I decided to give the yard two trims – the first with the mower raised a couple of notches. I think my lawn mower actually smiled. You know how kids, and RuPaul, and Adam Sandler, like to play dress-up? Well, my mower got the chance to play a grass combine harvester…and was thrilled. Two runs over the entire backyard and a tank-full of fuel later, my mower and I enjoyed a nice cold drink while admiring our most recent conquest over the St. Augustine green, problems solved, the next big thing discovered (but ignored). I heard the faint sounds of clapping and cheering emanating from behind the closed panes of glass of the surrounding houses. We retired gratified, me to my home and the mower to its shed.

Rains came the very next day. Nice timing!

My mower and I both smile, knowing what rains bring – tall grass and quality time together.