Beach park, 5:38 p.m. – Tourist season is here and I'm cold

November marks the official start of tourist season in my neck of the woods – and you can surely tell the difference in the number of people crowding the beach for sunset.

The cars are pouring into the parking lot and lumpy Yankees and Midwestern tourists are slamming car doors and running – literally RUNNING to the beach desperate to get a glimpse of the sun as the molten ball of lava descends into the ocean.

I just saw a fat and frumpy middle-aged Midwestern housefrau nearly trip over the sidewalk in her haste to get out of her minivan and get over the grassy verge and onto the sand.

The air has a distinct and pronounced chill tonight. The breeze is blowing something fierce – like the tongue lash of a harangued fishwife, it is whipping the hair and coats of all present.

The sun sank remarkably fast – within a matter of minutes. From the time I started writing until now. Sink. Sinking. Gone.

Show is over now. The crowds are leaving. It is like a tourist attraction. The herd comes into the museum room – stares at the pretty painting, then dutifully troops back out behind the matron. I expect to hear the screech of tires and see the mangled bumpers any time now. Yankees have an inability to drive outside their native habitat.

Four minutes after sunset and the beach is nearly deserted. There is only one slightly odd family still out there. They look to be taking vacation pictures for a family album.

The woman taking pictures is hardcore. She has a serious camera, ginormous lens, flash – the whole package. The family hardly paid attention to the sunset, they were so busy posing. First, they laid in the sand. Then, they laid on top of each other in the sand. Then, the photographer laid in the sand and the family jumped in unison.

With the sun down, the air is even more chill.

WOACA bad fashion alert. There’s a group coming up to meet someone at the pavilion here – one of them has on those new high-waisted jeans – which is fine, except they are white – and she has on a lime-green button-down shirt. Picture all this on a super-skinny fifty-year-old woman and you have what appears to be a blank page from a coloring book with the crown of a tree colored green. Don’t forget the bleached blonde pageboy on top. Hrrrrm. Hrrrrrm. I'm reaching for a comparison and I can't get there, it is just so odd.

The seagulls have complete ownership of the beach. There is a HUGE crowd of them out there on the sand. Jonathan Livingston would be so proud. They’re just sitting out there, chilling out. Not doing much of anything. Actually, I wonder what the hell they ARE doing. I usually despise the seagulls when I come to the beach because of all the noise and the inevitable byproducts of seagulls, namely seagull poo.

Damn. I’m cold. I never thought I would turn into one of “those people,” but it is seriously freaking chilly to me.

The parking lot that ten minutes ago looked like the the mall on a Saturday afternoon now looks like the mall at midnight on Sunday. As empty as the George W. Bush mind.

Damn. I’m cold. And there’s a woman running around with shorts and a sweatshirt. I never understood that particular fashion “statement.”

The seagulls are gone. Didn’t even hear them take off over this freaking wind. It is a blowing, that is for sure.

Some guy just swept by on the beach with a metal detector. That must be a good life – just metal detecting all day. I wonder how much stuff they find? Is it worth it to walk, walk, walk, out in the sun all day? But I bet you find some cool stuff.

The best thing I ever found on the beach was a bra. My friend and I came out to the beach early one morning to take pictures to send to our families and we found the remnants of someone’s VERY good time. Playtex crossed and uncrossed her heart that night.

Aw. Old people. Old man and old woman. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a bright yellow fleece jacket. She’s got on a black pencil skirt and a white long-sleeve top. She’s got a camera but missed the sunset by at least fifteen minutes. The only thing you’re gonna get now is clouds sister. Hang on to your man and tell him to drive faster next time.

Damn. I’m cold.

Even the crazy ducks that usually hang around the park are gone. I swear that my fingers have a chill. Of course, this venti iced white chocolate mocha that I had to stop off and have isn’t helping. The one time I should have stopped and gotten HOT coffee ….

The ocean looks so angry. The whitecaps are rolling in and crashing on the beach. The smell isn’t pleasant and sandy and serene and beautiful – just harsh and violent and stormy. The air sings a song of power and rain and violence and hints of barely contained fury. I am starting to enjoy this weather, although I am damn cold.

I love the feel of the wind and the air and the cold. It reminds me that I’m alive.

I love the taste of the salt air.

OK. My time is up. I can’t feel my fingers.