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WILKES-BARRE — I guess it’s true, the older you get the less tolerant you get of things like hot, humid temperatures.
When I was a kid, my pals and I lived for those sunny, hot days. We would play ball, hike, play games and then top it off with a swim before we went to our Little League game.
Today, all I can say is thank God for air conditioning.
Our recent heat wave, if you will, seems to be much more intolerable than I remember from my younger days. I recall heading to the Jersey shore almost every weekend to frolic in the sun and carouse at night.
But now, well, let’s say I love the beach except for the sand and saltwater.
A few bad experiences — one in particular — have lessened my level of affection for the beach.
It was in Ocean City, Maryland, where I really lost my love for the seashore. I decided to wade into the waves off the point there on what apparently was a day of rather high turbulence.
Anyway, as George Costanza from “Seinfeld” famously said in the marine biologist episode, “The sea was angry that day, my friends, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli.”
After negotiating the waves for a bit, having them slam into me time and again, I got used to the ocean again. Actually, it was fun riding the waves.
And then those waves got really angry.
One wave tossed me like a cork, down into the ocean’s bottom. I recovered, but before I could clear my water-filled lungs, another one — seemingly more powerful than a locomotive — slammed me from behind. I went down to the ocean’s floor again, this time with my head driven into the sand.
Just when I thought I may never figure out which way was up, I surfaced. I had sand in my bathing suit and seaweed in my mouth. One of my swim shoes was gone. And I had swallowed way too much saltwater.
As I staggered to the shoreline, two older ladies sitting on beach chairs immediately felt sorry for me. “Awww, look, he lost a shoe,” one said.
At that very moment, my missing shoe washed up to shore — like the sea was saying, “Here, take back your shoe. And don’t ever disrespect me again.”
I gathered up the shoe and tried to restore whatever dignity I had left as I searched for my towel. My friends — yes, friends — had witnessed this entire event. Some were in the ocean, others on the beach, all of them laughing hysterically. None of them realized, or cared, I had almost drowned.
I ignored them, got my towel, dried myself off and returned to the hotel where I showered and took a nap. When I awoke, there was a pounding in my head — the angry sea had not left me. Some saltwater got trapped in my inner ear and it became infected — adding to the joy of this trip to the beach. Which, by the way, began with my friend’s car being struck by an out-of-control vehicle driven by a kid who said he couldn’t stop.
I haven’t returned to the ocean since. That’s sad because I do have some fond memories of the ocean.
Anybody my age whoever went to Wildwood in the 60s and 70s remembers Uncle Lou’s — nothing like breakfast at Uncle Lou’s after a day on the beach and a night on the town. So many great times there, meeting friends back home, or new friends from places as far away as Montreal.
But I always preferred Sandy Beach over the Jersey shore. Fresh water over salt water. A half-hour drive over three hours.
Even at the shore, I preferred to hang out at the swimming pool at the motel rather than on the beach.
These days, I’d rather enjoy the great outdoors from inside my air-conditioned car or through the windows of my air-conditioned home.
While I still feel my generation, for the most part, remains vibrant, there are adjustments that seem to come as a result of getting older. We still like to dance and go to concerts and have a drink or two.
But 90 degrees and high humidity just aren’t for me.
As I bask in my air conditioning, I fear a power failure. That just might send me back to the beach.
