We’ve rounded the corner on winter, and my thoughts are already thinking of the beach! These thoughts have reminded me of notes I took back one hot July Saturday last year.

We had just selected our spot on the sand—we always came for “lunch” being locals and not feeling the need to arrive earlier like those who were only coming for the day or the week. Tom ground the umbrella base into the sand and attached the colorful top. We opened our beach chairs. I spread out the double towel, feeling that it provided personal space from folks walking in front of us too closely. It was COVID after all and a minimum of six feet between parties was not only prudent but a beach rule.

I plopped myself into my chair, under my umbrella (no more tanning for this aging skin!), and pulled out a novel I was relishing to finish. But first, I planned on relaxing while eating my sandwich—gazing out at the incoming tide and absorbing the sights and sounds that only the ocean can offer. As I took my first bite into the cold, creamy tuna, I felt the diligent work of the prior week roll off my shoulders. I closed my eyes and inhaled the sea air. I next should be telling you that I listened to the cry of the seagulls, but no. That isn’t what happened. 

Instead of melting into the lulling sound of the crashing waves, I was jarred back to reality by the blasting of music. The original version of Long Tall Sally invaded from the group of beachgoers next to us. At full volume. If they had been playing that when we were scoping out our spot, we would have kept walking. 

But now, against my will, my desire for peace and quiet was destroyed. Moving to another spot on the crowded beach wasn’t an option on a sunny and hot July Saturday especially with social distancing regulations and the fear of the virus. 

Yes, we could have just packed up and left, but gee, we had just gotten there.

The irony is the music they were playing was actually music I liked, under other circumstances. Part of the distain was that it was loud enough to filter into our space and distract us both from reading or even talking to each other. It felt like hanging out in a bar. Tom went in the water to escape. I put in earphones and tried to play something calming on my phone to allow me to focus back to my book. It didn’t work.

I believe the real reason the music was upsetting is I had no control regarding listening to it or not. In a world where our personal freedoms were eroding for the safety and health of the common good, I just wanted an afternoon at the seashore to relax. 

To add insult to injury, the folks with the loud music weren’t even sitting in their area listening to it.  They were playing in the water or at the snack bar.

So, who owns space? The people weren’t playing anything rude. They probably cranked it up so they would hear it from the water. They paid to get in to the beach. Was it their right to make their experience the way they enjoyed? Was this the same argument of mask or no mask as an infringement of personal freedom vs. public behaviors? I came to the beach to forget all of that.

In this case, we must remember who the real owners of the beach are—the seagulls. Tom is always says we’re borrowing it from them whenever a cry goes up from someone who’s had his lunch literally ripped out of his hands by a swooping gull, sometimes leaving a little blood on a finger tip from a misplaced talon. “Vicious and stalking gulls” says a sign as you come down the boardwalk to the sand. “Do not feed or encourage.” A restriction I have a difficult time following, especially with the smaller species who gently settle in next to me.

So, if we’re borrowing the beach from the gulls and the ants and the mice in the dunes, it stands we could also be mindful of each other.

How did that particular hot Saturday afternoon end? Someone from two towels behind us went over and lowered the volume.  At least I wasn’t the only one annoyed. But that action opened up another question in my mind—was touching someone’s property okay, even though it pleased me? Maybe the only answer in all of this is to not go to the beach on a hot Saturday in July.

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