Beaching It- Practice Makes Perfect

Recife: 8.0500° S, 34.9000° W 

I don't know how other families do the beach thing with such finesse. All around me, I see tranquil children who are happy digging holes in the shade, others content with splashing together near the shore. They linger for hours, laughing and playing, snoozing between activities and eating fried cheese on a stick. After some hours these harmonious families head home, happy and without the telltale waddle of too much sand in their cracks.  And don't even get me started on their beautifully tousled beach hair. These families clearly are beach experts. Or- they have magical powers. 

I want to know their secret because on the occasions that I take Deets and Margo to the beach without Mark it usually goes down like this: first I have to negotiate with Deets. He always wants to swim- always in the frigid pool, never in the ocean (though I can understand why). When he finally acquiesces, I chase both kids around the apartment for about twenty minutes to slather on sunscreen and I end up pinning one of them down to put on a swim suit on while the other pretends not to know how. I then squish into my own bathing suit and put on an elaborate show trying to put sunscreen on my back. It involves a lot of grunting and reaching but eventually, I can feel confident that I am somewhere between 85-95% covered. 

We walk across the street with one child tossed over my shoulder, angry that she can't 'just walk into traffic' and, the other insisting pausing in the middle of the crosswalk yelling at the cars to stop- because he's a super hero. We've arrived to the beach and Deets immediately wants to go straight into the water clothes and all, whereas Margo runs in the opposite direction just to prove a point. This means I have to repeatedly drag Deets back onto shore, chasing her down and at the same time getting inundated with unwanted shark attack advice from other beach goers. Or questions about whether they are twins. What time we do have in the water together is relatively entertaining: Deets jumps the waves and I bend over swinging Margo in my arms, giving the onlookers a primetime view of me squatting like a sumo wrestler. We never do go in further than my knees. Because quite frankly, there are sharks out there.

At some point I convince them to retreat to the shade for some bubbly water while I catch my breath, profusely sweating from exertion, sunscreen running in my eyes. The break lasts about 30 seconds and the cycle of herding cats begins again. I am chasing them amongst the various vendors showcasing obnoxiously loud toys, kiddie pools, ice cream, nuts, and again- quail eggs. Finally, after forty-five minutes  a long day in the surf we slink back to the sidewalk half dressed, tired and dehydrated (because someone decides to use the bubbly water as foot wash) with an obscene amount of sand matted into our rat's nest hair. Our other, darker places are also crusted in sand.

When I finally cajole the kids into the shower for a rinse,  I swear I will never take them out alone again.  Then another day comes; the waves tease, the sun beckons and distant music lures all of us back out there to explore. I become entranced once again and fall in love with living here.  I am sure one day WE will be the beach experts with harmonious, glowing auras. Or maybe that's the sun exposure talking.