Kid Zone
by J.G. Fabiano
It was the hottest day of the summer. I had lived on the beach almost everyday since the monsoons of June left us. July was a beautiful month for the beach. The temperatures averaged between 75 and 85 degrees. In fact, I dont think it ever hit near 90 over the early and middle part of the month. Then the humidity and heat came in force. Today it hit over 95 degrees and over 80 % humidity. Yes, it was the hottest part of the summer.
I arrived at the beach early attempting to survive the day. I originally placed my now aging and disintegrating beach chair on the soft sand. I didnt even get to sit down. The heat was too intense. It felt like I was wearing aluminum foil in the center of Kenmore Square. I decided to take a chance. A chance necessitated by the need to survive the heat. I decided to enter the kid zone.
The kid zone is located where the cool ocean waters meet the beach. In my minds eye I saw myself sitting in the water with my butt being cooled by each approaching wave. My feet would dig two holes until the receding water would make them disappear. The kid zone is the ultimate experience on the beaches of Hampton. Of course, that would be without the kids.
In my quest toward the zone I passed the little societies that were claiming their part of the beach. I observed how the umbrellas were placed in the middle of the little townships much like the churches were placed in the middle of villages. The peripheral material surrounded the umbrella that included coolers, blankets, toys, and of course the ever popular beach games. After the beach town was completed instructions were given to the town folk. Ninety-nine percent of the time these instructions were given by the matriarch of the society. The children and the other adults were the ones receiving the instruction.
Everything was developing nicely on the beach when I finally approached my destination. I could feel the air-cool as I came close to where the ocean met the beach. It was surprisingly quiet. In fact, it was almost empty. I was thrilled. I planted my chair six inches deep in the water, lit up one of my favorite cigars, took hold of a book Ive been reading throughout the 1990s, and off to serenity I went.
Then I heard it. At first it was just a slight vibration felt in my chair. Then the vibration turned into a rumble. I then felt like a salmon trying to go upstream. I was in the midst of hordes of children running into the surf with their pales, floats, and balls. It almost seemed like I was in the midst of a locust attack. After the first wave of children came the childrens keepers. They were always paired up. Sometimes they came in-groups of over six or seven. They came with their arms crossed forever peering into the ocean making sure that their offspring were safe and out of harms way.
I was always greeted by the, Why the hell are you here look. Or the ever popular, How dare you smoke that vulgar thing around my children glare. Being an old professional beach person, I ignored all around me. That is until the children started their marathon from the ocean and back to the blanket routine. They went into the ocean dry and came out dripping wet. Not only dripping down into the ocean but kicking up waves of water. I felt like I was in a noreaster. The waves continued until the children going into the water were as wet as the children leaving the water. The cigar situation was quickly eliminated.
As I tried to ignore the children running in and out of the water I saw a small yellow float that just caught a wave. It looked like a small fishermans buoy. No danger to me, I thought, but then it came closer. It was as though the little boys float was attached to my beach chair. It was driven by the waves directly in front of me. I had to use my foot so that it would not rest on my lap. The mother of this child then ran next to me and advised the child that he should stay away from this man. What did I do?
Being totally surrounded by hoards of children playing, kicking, and splashing I attempted to hold my ground. Every-now and then a young child would walk directly in front of me and just stare. I said hello and attempted to smile only to have our discourse being interrupted by the watcher. She would grab the child by the arm and tell him or her to stay away from me. I started to think I was something grotesque.
Then the big children arrived. They, unlike the younger children, arrived with a bang. On this particular day I was almost knocked over by a flying teenager trying to catch a football. He missed; I caught it in my lap. The boy tried to apologize and I just waved him off. I couldnt talk for at least three or four minutes.
When I found my breath I decided that I wasnt destined to spend my day in the kid zone. I walked back up to the soft sand. The now bustling beach townspeople watched as I retreated knowing that my departure was exactly what they wanted. I mean, how dare I try to survive the kid zone. Now firmly in my position away from the water I watched another elderly gentleman begin his quest for the zone. I almost wanted to warn him but that wouldnt have been half as much fun as watching him fail the zone.
Jim Fabiano is a teacher and writer living in York, Maine