Writing Assignment; At the Beach

The morning’s damp gray marine layer had been pushed back to sea under the pressure of temperate onshore breezes. From my vantage point on top of a dune the breaking waves seem to stretch from Monterey to Marina in an unbroken line of blues, greens and white. The mix of tangy salt air and the roar of the surf is a salve to my soul. Del Monte beach was unusually crowded for a February afternoon. But it was Valentine’s day and that brought out families, couples, lovers and those simply interested in taking advantage of the unseasonable warmth.

A boy of ten, or so, attempts to bury his Chihuahua mix dog in the sand. “Grammy, look at Bobbi!” Unremarkable except for the uniformity of its tan coat, Bobbi wriggles away again. Sudden movement draws Grammy’s attention over the top of her book, and the youth in matching navy and gold board shorts and top scampers across the sand in chase. “Alex,” she calls to deaf ears. Setting the book aside, she rises and shields her eyes to watch her grandson chase the pup. Her dark blonde hair with gold highlights, pulled back to a short ponytail, reflects as much of the sun as does the Rhode Island sized diamond on her finger.

Bobbi is now attempting to engage a Golden Retriever, gray at the muzzle and 5 times her size, in a game of chase. The heavy-set man in Dockers and a blue tape stripe shirt is nonplussed by the interruption. A brief tug on the leash exposes a bit of shirt cuff below the sleeve of his olive North Face fleece jacket.

Twin four year old's in matching floral print mini-dresses over black bike shorts double team their grandmother toward the surf. When one loses a Croc in the foam the arm-tugging becomes lopsided. Ponytails high on heads bob and wave in an excited fashion as the family matriarch, jeans rolled to the knees, bends at the hip to retrieve the lost shoe. Her unbuttoned white top exposes a fair amount of tanned cleavage. Upright again, girl’s foot ware in hand, she pulls her vermilion sweater closed and shepherds her young charges back toward their blankets. The Nikon SLR around her neck comes up for a hastily posed photo with the rolling overhead surf as a backdrop.

A lone female in head-to-toe black tosses a soft Frisbee into the breeze for the world’s happiest dog. Black and white, with white spots on the black and black spots on the white, and nearly squealing its pleas to throw the disc again, the pair make their way across the packed sand at the water’s edge. Long auburn tresses and sad eyes are not noticed by the joyful canine.

The silver sequin eagle on the back of his western style shirt is the only non-black visible on one half of the Latino couple. Her painted on denim Capri pants, and too-short, too-tight yellow top reveal too much about her figure. His uneven gait and reluctant demeanor make me think of times when I had been pulled away from my Budweiser to join in an outing, too. That he picks up speed on their return trip to the parking lot reminds me of a barn sour trail horse.

A shapely 40-something brunette strolls perilously close to where I sit and write. She’s heading
to the parking lot, alternately pulling and being pulled in play by a petite blonde girl. The thin white cotton tank top and pink cashmere sweater tied around her neck do not conceal her figure. It’s a bit cooler now. Barefoot, lean tanned legs and green cargo shorts are equally distracting. I get the feeling from her gaze that she knows what I’m writing. As she lifts the 70’s retro styled sunglasses and smiles, I am certain she knows what I am thinking. “Aunt Sami, I want to eat at McDonald’s. OK?” “Sure, honey.” She looks almost as delightful walking away as she did walking toward me. The backward glance and second smile confirm it; she knows what I am writing. Breathtaking.

Five young teens are taking turns on an elongated skim board, their whoops and taunts rising above the roar of the surf. The shirtless young men in gaily colored board shorts and trunks catcall at the inevitable, spectacular spills of their friends. The foamy wash routinely sweeps them into each other and hapless passersby.

The Met Life blimp, homeward after the golf tournament, passes almost noiselessly overhead,
the few remaining children squealing and waving excitedly. Couples stop to point; Snoopy going
unnoticed by the assortment of dogs still busily chasing, fetching and straining at leashes. Sand castle shadows are growing longer. The sun is dipping lower. The breeze is getting cooler. Aunt Sami and I are having coffee at Peet’s this evening.