about the beach

I meant to get back to talking about the beach. Because Virginia Beach is such an unlikely spot, really, to feel any sort of spiritual regeneration. In the first place, it's a military town. Or it feels like one. Norfolk is right near by, the biggest naval base on the east coast if not in the country. There's Langley Air Force Base as well. In fact the parking lot for the beach we went to has a sign: "Free Parking All Day unless Firing Range is in Use." Well. That, and the concertina wire along the perimeter, slowed me down a bit.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First of all there's the drive from Richmond. Virginia Beach is about two hours away, past all sorts of spots of historical interest: the Jamestown settlement, Yorktown, Williamsburg, Water Country USA... we didn't stop for any of them, nor for the outlet malls for which Williamsburg is rapidly becoming better known than for its Disney-esque colonial village. We just drove, on and on, finally reaching the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel over and through the Chesapeake Bay. (I've heard that it combines bridge and tunnel to prevent its destruction in case of war, though I'm not sure how that helps...)

Finally, Virginia Beach. The end of the road, almost literally. There's a "strip," where there are "no cursing" signs. Or that's what I assume they are: the red slashed circle, containing "#@!%*?". Or something like that. No cursing? Mark thinks they're code for "no cruising while blasting rap"--or, more directly, "no driving while black"--maybe so. Bizarre, anyway. Years ago I remember seeing signs there that said you couldn't pass by the same sign more than twice in an hour...another "no cruising" ordinance.

The kids were taken by the giant mini-golf sites we passed along the strip. (Giant mini-golf--is that an oxymoron?) But we didn't stop for them, either. We had waves in mind. Or Mark did. We parked at one spot and he ran out to check the surf--and came back to report that it was good, and regular, but too crowded. So we drove on to another spot and parked at the free parking lot (apparently no one was using the firing range).

This beach is not a "couples on vacation" type of beach, nor, really, a "family" beach. The surf may be too much for families, but I think more to the point is the firing range, the concertina wire, the atmosphere of military installation. This is not alleviated by the frequent flyovers by Navy jets. They're everywhere, as are the helicopters. I didn't see any big ships off the coast, though.

There were lots of high school kids at the beach, traveling in single-sex packs, for the most part. Pretty girls in bikinis bumming lights off of tanned guys in baggy trunks and crew cuts. Lots of boogie-boarders out in the swell, lots of others just sitting and watching. Every now and then a couple of guys would start throwing a football around. There was an offshore breeze that picked up a beach umbrella every now and then and carried it down to the water, occasioning great hilarity as sandy kids ran down to pick them up.

The water was frigid, and the bottom was fairly pebbly. It was too cold for me to go in all the way, though everyone else managed to. But as I stood in the shorebreak, letting my feet get numb, I didn't really hear the jets or see the concertina wire. I just felt the water wash over me. Clothilde pointed out to the horizon: "There's France!" We laughed, but I felt the connection, too. The ocean dividing us, but connecting us as well. And that's why the sunburn didn't matter.

(Clothilde did burn--my fantasy of the perfection of French teenagers is shattered.)