Beach Life

My dog and I would love to live on the beach full-time. Every day here we go on two outings: After a morning of writing I take her for a run and a swim, and at night we’re back out there trying to catch the sunset with a long walk and another swim. We practically own this stretch of beach, once we pass a few people by the parking lot we have the place to ourselves. Running in the hot desert again without an immediate swim to cool-off afterward is going to take a lot of commitment.

Yesterday a dog died while we were at the beach.

At the beginning of our run a big Boxer curiously and boldly approached my dog, but ran back into the waves with his owners after they called him off. I quickly let my dog off-leash so she could get away from him if she needed to, but she wasn’t afraid, she’d met him before. I’ve seen that couple out there with their two dogs a few times in the past days.

At the end of our run and swim the Boxer was laying in the sand covered up with a towel. His lady-owner was curled over him, holding him and crying. The man-owner was sitting right beside them, one hand on the dead dog and his other on their other dog, an older, fattish collie mix. It was a sad day for their family, probably a sad vacation.

I don’t know what happened…heat stroke? They were walking him slowly in the water to cool off, but maybe he drank some salt water and was dehydrated?

Some bystanders told me about the dead dog. First a dad with a boy—he stopped me because he didn’t want me to walk my dog too close. He mentioned he knew CPR, but not for a dog. I suddenly remembered in my last CPR class I did learn how to resuscitate a dog, so I did walk close to the people so I could tell them how to do it if he was still alive…he wasn’t.

A big, fat, short, older lady in a one-piece walked over to me and told me so. (I’m now used to talking to people of all body shapes who feel no need to cover up—I’m not going to describe the old man who I thought, by how little he was wearing, must be European, but he spoke to me in a thick, southern accent). She is the one who said heat stroke…I don’t think she knew, I think she just thought it was too hot for us to have our dogs out there. She was kind of lecturing me, but trying to be helpful at the same time. She’d already rounded up a little trailer from some other people to haul the dog off the beach and was asking everyone where the nearest vet office was. I'm not sure the owners were thinking about that stuff yet.

I was saddened by the scene on the beach. Dogs should last a little longer than they do...I know I'll probably have to endure a couple more dog-friend deaths in my life. Apparently I think it's worth it.

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Living in a little vacation beach town, we get new neighbors often. Friday a couple of noisy families moved in next door. They have a lot kids they yell at, and who yell back while they ride their big-wheels up and down the street to the beach. Are they still called big-wheels?

The people have a huge boat and a couple of ski-doos parked outside, they’re taking up half the street. They’ve set up a tent and are partying in their driveway. Like many people outside in Florida, they feel the need to have music on all the time. They’re just using their truck speakers, but it’s loud enough that although I’m inside with the AC on, I know exactly what song is playing right now…partly because it’s a country song I hear every damn day down here (I know, my fault), and partly because it’s just plain loud. For some unknown reason they also like to leave that truck running for 30 minutes or longer. Why do truck owners do that?

The good news is I’m betting they leave Friday, everyone only stays a week.

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Last night by the time I finished walking it was late, dark and no one was left on the beach. I still wanted to swim, I wanted to see the phosphorescent lights in the water. Kevin said he saw them the other night, but he had to go out quite a way. I left my things and my dog on the beach, and went in. I was in about waist deep when I saw some lights coming over the dunes, and I imagined I heard motorcycle engines. I ran out as fast as I could, picturing a bunch of rednecks cornering me, only to see that it was just a little family of four walking with flashlights hoping to catch some crabs. No motorcycles.

I waited until they passed, and went back in. I was still a little edgy about being in the water alone after dark, but, I wanted to be in the water alone after dark. Suddenly a 16-inch fish jumped about three feet out of the water and slapped back into the water right next to me. It caused me to about have a heart attack. Again, I raced out.

I thought I’d give it one more try. I was imagining sharks, sting rays and all manner of Florida creatures swarming around my legs, as I went back out. (We did see a dead baby shark on the beach one day...they are in there.) I was too chicken to go under…I saw a couple little phosphorescent lights and got the hell out of there. Kevin’s going to have to go out there with me on another night. Then if a shark gets hold of my leg, at least someone will know how I went out.

We walked about 50 yards off the beach and I heard a deafening sound from the nearby swamp. It sounded spooky, like a bunch of radio voices all confused, or how you might imagine an alien language sounding. Kevin said it must be frogs, but it didn’t sound like any frogs I’d ever heard.

Again, there was, unusually, no wind, and I felt a few tiny, strange bugs flying around me for the first time since we’ve been here. They were landing on me and stinging a little. It reminded me that we’re actually in the flat, marshy, insect-infested, alligator-filled South, and there's no reason to venture more than 50 yards off this nice, breezy beach.