PANDEMIC DIARY — Roaming with Roth

DOES IT FOR ME
DECEMBER 29, 2020

Adele and I leave for the beach on Thursday morning. More specifically, we are headed to Siesta Key, a miles long, fine white-sand slip of island, a short ride across a bridge from the mainland City of Sarasota, Florida.

I was thinking what it was about the beach that so moves me. I have always loved the beach. When I was in my early teens, my friends and I would head out to Orchard Beach in the Bronx. We used to jokingly cough up the name of the beach, “Horseshit Beach” as a joke. But, as public beaches went in the 1940’s and 1950’s, Orchard Beach was luxurious. What did we know? Yes, people used to smoke and not even bother to bury their cigarette butts. And, yes, it was the time of the “Boom Boxes” and you could hardly escape the loud thumping of the bass lines. It most definitely was crowded. During high season it was not uncommon for stretches of the beach to be fully quilted with blankets right up next to one another in a crazy patchwork of colors that made walking to the water nearly impossible without stepping onto someone else’s blanket or accidentally kicking sand onto someone’s prone body. Still, were were not detracted or turned away. To my friends and I, it earned its claim as “The Riviera of the Bronx” with pride.

“The beach is not a place to work; to read, write or to think.”
Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea

At the time, I was dating Cynthia Miller.. She was the love of my teenage life. We were together all the time. Then, the summer came. We were in high school, and my underdeveloped body (I couldn’t find my biceps) could not go one on one with the Adonis-like builds and well-oiled tanned older guys, who seemed to live at the beach when they weren’t working. With skin like mahogany, cool friends, and money folded to fit in those tiny pockets of their bathing suits, they nestled in pose under “invitation-only” umbrellas that the feminine specie gravitated to and were too much for me to compete with. I lost Cynthia to the sea…and an extremely good looking young man who became a NYC police officer.

Historical records indicate that ‘vacationing at the beach’ was not really a concept until the late 1700’s in Europe. Due to road construction and improved means of transportation it simply became easier to get to the sea. However, there is also evidence that the ancient Greeks enjoyed lying on sandy shores, which in Greece were readily available given island life. This story about Diogenes the Cynic reveals some light as to their delight:

Alexander the Great was coming through Corinth to gather the Greeks for his invasion of Persia. While there he saw Diogenes on the beach. Diogenes had a reputation for being the happiest man in the world. Alexander came to him and offered to give Diogenes anything he desired if he would join the fight. Diogenes asked only for Alexander to step aside, he was blocking the sun.

As you can see [below], images from 5th century frescos from Paestum shows a youth jumping from what appears to be a diving tower. There is also literary evidence for occasional swimming races. Plato considered a man who didn’t know how to swim the same as an uneducated man. Aristotle thought that swimming in the sea is better for the health than swimming in lakes and rivers. He was also in favor of cold water over warm.

Going to the beach might not have been convenient for our distant relatives, neither had it a place in antiquarian vacation planning, but man’s/woman’s relationship with the sea and shore shows a historic respect for what pleasures it provides.

Nothing profound here. Simply saying how much we are looking forward to getting to our place and to say Bon Voyage. My next communication will be from Siesta Key. Let’s all be safe and smart in these last days of this pandemic. That is my wish for all this New Year’s. Oh, yes, one more thing. Here’s to a
Warnock and Ossoff sweep. Fingers crossed.

“In every out-thrust headland, in every curving beach, in every grain of sand there is the story of the earth.” Rachel Carson