Ode to a Sunny Revelation

Short personal essay.

“Don't grow up too quickly, lest you forget how much you love the beach.”

-- Michelle Held

 

 

It was yet another good ol’ family getaway to the beach; a product of my mother’s uncanny love for basking up some so-flo sunshine. Hollywood Beach had become our primary spot, and I think we all enjoyed the hustle and bustle of Madison Avenue, sandwiched between a sushi place and organic farmer’s market. The people watching was incredible here, and one of the few reasons I would stay put in my chair half of the time. I got a kick out of the middle aged Cuban men in barely there speedos waddling by, ravaged by their monstrous pot bellies, leaving a greasy trail of sunscreen in their wake. Not to mention their equally perverse wives in itsy bitsy bikinis, muffin tops and gobs of spray tan trailing behind them, fanny packs at the ready. I like to call this Miami Vice: Reloaded.

Eleven A.M was rearing close when we all hopped into the Xterra parked under a bougamvillia bush in the front yard. The trunk was piled up past its maximum capctiy, beach umbrellas and plastic chairs poking at my back. Throughout the entire twenty minute drive, I thought I was going to feel a dozen beach chairs collapsing over me and the bowl of spaghetti I was in charge of holding. Trips for us were always like this, faulty and organized. At the end of the day, they just led to everyone’s resentment of one another, and the loss of a watch ofr someone’s headphones in the sand. This is, however, the family unit we were. So after countless voyages to Orlando and Key West we were all used to it. The SUV trembled slightly as we neared the narrow streets of Sunny Isles, ridden with potholes and uneven paint jobs. It was six people in a five passenger car, listening to my grandma go on a rant concerning the multimillion dollar neighborhood of Golden Beach, yelling over the radio how that would be someday, if we could just win the lottery, no problem. Wishful thinking, right?

My grandma refused to admit she was addicted to gambling. At first it was fun to watch her stress over the winning numbers of the day. It finally became a concern when she was blowing hundreds of dollars a day on playing. I would yell at her for it, she would get ‘fed up’ with her losses, and give up that same day. We all knew better of course. With any kind of addiction, will power goes out the window. An alcoholic can’t give up drinking, and a sex addict can’t give up sex. It’s the same concept I feel guilty for even thinking of, mostly because my grandmother isn’t much for either of those these days.

We drove up to the parking lot, and set up shop a few feet from the tide, in between a trio of palm trees; our usual spot. The sand was scorching and dry, harsh on my bare feet. I guess this was nature’s way of telling me I was in need of a pedicure.

It took two trips back and forth from the parking meter where the rest of our chairs, coolers, and a couple duffle bags were left behind, on account of we are not the strongest set of people; and certainly not the smallest.

Before we knew it, our make-shift umbrellas were hoisted up sideways, balancing on the two extra coolers we had to lug around. I took in the wind-dry, like the sand- as I joined everyone for the plateful of greasy, undercooked spaghetti that was awaiting its attack on our insides.

Lunch was eaten in the bouts occasional spooky quiet, accompanied by the ear-shattering conversation you’d expect from a group of Cubans. Part of our beliefs: the louder you speak, the righter you are. This rang true as I observed the people in front of me. They were my family; yet seemed like strangers to me at the same time. I couldn’t help but wonder about my place here. Trips like these only worried me more. How much more happiness and getting along had to happen before the next fight that ruins everything? I decided to ride out that thought.

The next hour or so went by smoothly as I drifted away from our hide-out and trekked a few feet to the very edge of the water, taking in everything I could. The air, the clouds, the smells. I even watched the families as they made sand castles with the kids’ plastic water pails. I had made it a point earlier on in my life to be as observant as I can. Over the years, that’s just developed to being extremely over-analytical.

 My hair was sticking to the sides of my face and sneaking up behind my sunglasses by the time I decided to get up. It was later in the afternoon, and I felt like I was in the middle of a game of Frogger; maneuvering myself over and under all of the people sprawled out on towels in the sand.

I asked my brother if he wanted to take a walk with me to get some ice cream. He’s eleven, so as soon as the word registered in his mind, he was already in his flip-flops, gesturing for me to follow him. We only got to walk a couple of stores down, when we stopped to wait for our mom in front of the Souvenir place that doubled as a tiki bar. The displays of over-priced neon colored Miami shirts seemed to be everywhere, and beckoned for the tourists that didn’t know better than to spend twenty five buck s on an airbrushed t-shirt. I didn’t wait for her to catch up to us, just continued walking, directing my gaze to the people ambling by on their rented bicycles.

Edy’s Ice Cream Shoppe brought back memories as I stepped inside to savor the intoxicating smell of ice cream only a kid can identify.

Six cones and thirty wasted dollars later, we were making our way back, leaving a trail of melted almond praline us. I averted my eyes from everyone staring at the ice cream drippings sliding down my shirt and legs in a slippery slope of sugar and sprinkles. I muttered so many curse words under my breath; I ran a risk of being grounded until my eighteenth birthday.

“ Lighten up Lizza! It’s not a big deal”, my mother whispered in her broken English.

It took us over twenty minutes to walk back over to our spot. By then, the chocolate covering the cones’ rims had dissipated, covering the sprinkles in a brown, gooey mess. The ice cream soup was handed off to the faces of disgust and disappointment, followed by the eruption at how much we had spent. In fact, we still owed the cashier a few bucks that we had promised to return to her.

The yelling began almost immediately and crowded my ears. Obviously, it was time to go. Our things were packed in less than a millisecond, and we headed back to the car. Needless to say, carrying tons of rusted beach chairs and food containers up a flight a stairs across a lot sure isn’t easy on the nerves. Especially when everyone was already annoyed at each other. It was a good thirty minutes later, as the truck eased out onto the highway again, that I realized something. Even the brightest bout of sunshine, and other people’s happiness, weren’t enough to inspire our own.