A day in the life of Revere Beach

Now that summer is in full force, the local beach has a growing population of family groups, and collections of teens. The parents are here to watch their children discover the beach. Play in the sand, dig to china, doing battle with the waves, just being a child. For summer is the best of times to be a child. The days are open to explore the world, to increase their understanding of life. Full of unstructured play, if they are lucky, over structured schedules if not. In a way, I think these children are the lucky ones. Some one cares enough about them to let them do nothing for a time. As yet, the visitors do not outnumber the seagulls, but that time might come.

The teens are here less to tan, for tanning beds have taken care of that, but to be seen. Seen by their friends, other teens, people whose business has taken them to this spot on the beach today. For this the young adults do not need the sand, they do not need the waves, all they need is the small parking spot to hold their parents cars, and a spot on the wall to lay their towels. The towels are less for staying dry, and more for keeping the sand and heat off their expensive swim suits, - which other than the washing machine might never see water all season. One wishes the boys would care as much about their appearance as the girls do. But, perhaps they do, and I am just too old to realize it. For I see no fashion statement in ‘shorts’ three sizes to big, and made for someone much taller, or cotton boxers in a clashing color or pattern showing on top. Pulled as tight as possible – unlike the swim trunks – and then scrunched down to show bellies and hips. The suits will most certainly never see a single spray of salt, or a wave of water. Radio blaring trunk open to hold the obligatory cooler of caffeine drinks for the guys, and diet soda for the girls, not a bit of food for either. I wonder how someone can live on just sugar water, just caffeine with the occasional soft serve ice cream, or Kelly’s fried food to tie them over.

The parade of cars continues, bumper to bumper, from every where, and yet from no where all at the same time. Most cars are from Massachusetts, with the occasional New Hampshire or Maine visitor. Suddenly I am forced to stop and ponder one vehicle, from Virginia of all places. What a very long drive to go to the beach, and this beach of all beaches. Are they here visiting some long lost family member, for a wedding or a funeral? A transplant, having as the Globe likes to tell us, given up on Massachusetts to move to a place where the living is less expensive, if not quite as exciting. Taking a day away from family or friends, to take a breather and visit a beach. .This beach, of all beaches available to visitors from so far away, this not so busy beach. The vehicle is as empty as a rental car, no hint as to the numbers of passengers brought to the beach. And no one sits near the car, to hint ownership.

My neighborhood, just one block from the beach, close enough to hear the radios, and traffic, is empty. We have no connector to the beach, unless you know the secret foot path, and while parking is scarce, it is available. Yet, we are hidden, quiet invisible to all but those in the know. No beach visitor walks down our street, no non resident cars block our sidewalks. And not a single resident of this quiet street is visible outside their home. We visit the beach in the winter, on rainy days, on those days when the Boulevard is empty. For to live near the beach is to love the beach, when no one else does, to hide when the outsiders visit. And we do not happily share our love with those we do not know. We wait until the strangers leave then we visit, when we have our beach all to our selves again.