Woolly Mammoth and Family Sighting At Ocean City Beach

By David Drury

 

In a moment of profound mental weakness my wife and I decided to go to the beach today.  We were on vacation in Ocean City ("near Atlantic City but with 75% less sin") which is in New Jersey ("not normally a vacation destination").  We are not beach-types really but since we were on vacation, we decided that a relaxing day at the beach would be just the thing!

 

This was the first obvious sign of our psychological breakdown, because we had our two pre-school children with us. Anyone knows that you can’t relax at the beach with preschoolers.

 

I watched as one couple went to the beach from our parking lot.  The guy (I call him "Buck") wheeled into the lot with his suburbs wheels and his inner-city music, brakes squealing a bit to announce his arrival.  Buck's girl (I call her "Veronica") tottered out of the passenger while the car still rocked, from his halting stop or the stereo I do not know.  Veronica carried all she needed under one arm... towel and suntan lotion.  Sunglasses were already on her head.  She had on about 7% of what used to be a full pair of jeans.  The top 3% was also cut off for more proper hip ventilation, I'm guessing, and the pockets hung down lower than the shorts.  Her shirt had a similar fashion sense. 

 

Buck must have spent several months at the beach already because his shirtless skin had the appearance of ornately tattooed and stained woodwork.  And he was roughly the size of a chest of drawers, now that I think of it.  Speaking of chests—his had no hair at all!  Unless he was a 6'3" pre-pubescent 12-year-old with pecks the size of my head, I'm thinking Buck has two razors in the tub.

 

We looked somewhat different than these two as we unloaded from our reliable Ford Taurus.  First of all, one of our children needs to have at least 27 "sippy cup" drinks per hour.  This is in the winter.  While motionless.  In the summer while running up and down a 90° boardwalk, a fire truck must follow us around in order to re-supply his insatiable thirst. 

 

The other child has been in a "growth spurt" since roughly, oh, about the time she was born.  This means that she eats far more than the three of us put together.  It is amazing what this dainty little girl can pack away.  I've seen her slam a cheeseburger at 10 months old faster than a professional football player.  I think she’s doing high level critical mass experiments with her internal organs involving a pyloric black-hole or something.  From our standpoint the numbers just don't add up—and by numbers I mean: "poopy diapers."

 

Because the "ankle-biters" are in need of these vast quantities of food and drink, my official role in the family is "pack mule."  I'm the family mascot that carries all the accoutrements around with an inhuman but adorable look in his eye that says, "Help me."  While I carried our burdens to the boardwalk from the parking lot, Hank and Veronica looked upon me with pity–while making a mental note to hold on to 16 for as long as they can.

 

Once we had dutifully strolled the entire boardwalk, which ended somewhere close to Maryland, we turned back and determined that an afternoon at the beach would be nice after our aimless walk.  Here is the point where our insanity runs deep.  We forged on and found a place in the massive beach that seemed very far from other people.  This is important when you have preschoolers—because even though everyone will still hate you for bringing your screaming brats within earshot of them, you will be unable to make out the expressions on their faces or their mutterings about you.

 

My first task as official pack mule was to erect the tent.  Now, most beach-goers simply throw down a towel and begin their well-greased sun-worship.  Veronica was obviously a pro, wearing only 7% of her clothes in the first place, enabling her to quickly maximize the sun's rays.  I'm sure Buck just did pushups all afternoon—adding another layer of lacquer to his bronzed back.  We, however, needed to erect some kind of place to shield our children from the sun—and give them a place to take a nap.  Now, on both of these counts you see our insanity.  On the one hand, if we wanted to shield our children from the sun, we had no reason in the world to take them to the BEACH!  Furthermore, all research has proven that no child under the age of 4 has EVER, since the Paleolithic era, taken a nap at the time and in the place where their parents want them to.

 

So the tent was a senseless and very bad idea.  However, the pack mule hauled it all the way to the beach and mindlessly erected it.  Once the tent was up, I noticed we were the only people on the beach with a full camping tent.  You might have seen this coming.  But since I was raised by hippies I always keep a tent in my car and think nothing of popping it up wherever and whenever.  However, the local beach community of Ocean City, New Jersey stared at us with great confusion.  I think they thought we were homeless people.  When I sat down with an empty sippy cup in my hand a guy dropped a dollar bill in it looking at me as though to say, "Here's hoping your luck changes, buddy."  I, the pack-mule, could only respond with my adorable "help me" look.  He then put in another dollar.

 

But the sun-worshipping Ocean City people didn't know the worst was still coming.  I still had my shirt on.  It was so hot I could fry an egg on my sunglasses, so I thought I’d take my shirt off.  Buck was bare-backed before he got out of his car—so why not me too?  The problem is that my physique was not intended for shirtlessness.  Three very good reasons:

 

1. I have a farmer’s tan.  Being originally from Indiana I see no problem there.  When I hear "farmer's tan" I think, "Hard-working-not-slacking-I-have-a-job tan."  But when people like Buck hear "farmer's tan" they feint on the spot.

2. I am portly.  It’s not that I’m obese.  I work out a few times a week, I walk to work frequently, I watch what I eat, choosing large portions so as to keep my eye on them more easily.  However, despite this fitness regimen I continue to have a portly roll of fat around my belly that my children climb like Everest when we wrestle on the floor.

3. I have strange chest hair.  Unlike the clean-shaven "Buck" or those evenly carpeted Italian men, my chest hair grows in thick clumps in only a few places.  It looks a bit like my lawn, in fact.

 

These three factors combine to give my shirtless self the appearance of a half sun-burned half blinding-white woolly mammoth with the mange.

 

Right at the point when I removed my shirt a girl strolled through our carefully plotted screaming brat perimeter and put down her towel not 10 yards from us.  She also had clothing similar to Veronica’s.  My wife was thinking, "Oh, great... Now my husband is going to look at this little skank instead of me."  Instead, I was actually thinking that the girl was closer to my daughter’s age than my own.  I also couldn't believe she was doing something with her top that, while certainly being more conducive to full-body tanning, still did not communicate "75% less sin" to me or my children.  I promptly took my daughter into our homeless shelter and gave her a lecture on proper attire for young ladies.  Since she was only 14 months old I think I caught her in time.  In a courageous battle against preschool peer pressure I believe she said, "I'll never dress like that Daddy!"  What she actually said was, "Goo blah bleg lickka lickka."  My wife later interpreted this as, "Daddy, can I climb on your belly-mountain?"

©2004 David Drury

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