Lovin' beach vacation; hatin' sunscreen

(694 words)

It took a 55-foot keelboat and two 35-foot supply boats for the 27-man Lewis and Clark expedition to in 1804 traverse the continent.

I figure if the attempt were made today they’d need a third boat just for sun screen. 

After an otherwise splendid week on Chincoteague Island, Virginia, I can report that a day at the beach is no longer a day at the beach.

It all starts with the messy, time-consuming and distasteful task of applying sun screen. Dermatologists recommend an SPF of at least 30 with some saying as high as 50.

Given doomsday climate change predictions, I imagine in five years it’ll be SPF 5000, but that’ll be moot because by then our idea of an adventure vacation will be anything outside and above ground.

The sun, our most necessary element in sustaining human life, is also becoming the element most likely to wipe it out.

It’s good for us; it’s bad for us.

So more and more a day at the beach is like unprotected sex with an old hooker. 

Fun for the whole family!

I think the inefficiency of proper sunscreening is what gets me most. First of all, by this time of year we have a closet full of half-used sunscreens of varying potencies. So if I’m determined to get to the prudent SPF 50, I must resort to math. 

I find one half-empty SPF 25 and two nearly done SPF 15s. That’s an excess total of SPF 60 — a waste of 10 perfectly good SPFs.

So by my way of thinking, I need to even the score by choosing to leave 10 percent of my body sunscreen free. I chose to sacrifice the thighs.

Wouldn’t you know it? That’s the same day my thighs got sunburned!

With us, sunscreen application is a family affair. We all gather on the porch and slather it on the parts of ourselves we can reach. Once that’s rubbed in, we form a little Conga line, oldest to youngest and do one another’s backs. Val then does mine.

It’s a little awkward so the only sound you hear is a reverse slurping sound a near-empty bottle makes when the contents evades the hole and you got to flip the lid and give it a shake or two.

When this is done, I head to the bedroom, close the door, pull down my swim trunks and secretly spray my testicles with shark repellent.

Don’t tell me you wouldn’t feel stupid going to all that trouble to avoid a little sunburn only to wind up standing there in the surf waving goodbye to a shark that’s swimming away with your balls in his mouth.

None of this would be worth it if the beach didn’t have the ocean and the ocean didn’t have waves.

I wonder if it has something to do with returning to our Darwinian roots, but stepping into a bracing ocean and allowing yourself to be pummeled by relentless waves is utterly euphoric.

Better still is being a dad to children, 18 and 13, who prefer having actual fun to appearing cooly aloof. Val, too.

The girls let these huge waves knock the literal snot out them.

I can’t think of any other physical activity that leads to a similar result that is so joyful.

Our little one — she’s nearly as big as me — was particularly ecstatic. I hope I never forget that look of wonder, fear and brave anticipation on her face as she felt and saw a monster wave about to crash down on her head.

Pity the youth too umbilically tethered to their devices to experience such electrifying recklessness.

Even the ominous appearance of jellyfish did not deter the fun and, in fact, led to a burst of female team building when they ganged up on me for joking the jellyfish were simply looking for compatible peanut butter fish.

We rode bikes, saw the native horses, hiked, dined, ran into some old friends and enjoyed some truly spectacular family time.

In short, we had a ball.

And thanks to my judicious use of shark repellent, the Chincoteague-area sharks did not.

Related …

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Our 2.9 mile vacation

On bored Amtrak

Vacation recycling near impossible

Pittsburgh for the holidays

I'm (not) dreaming of a tan Christmas

(743 words)

Unless we’re in for a sudden cold snap, it looks like for the first time in 10 years I won’t have a beard by at least New Year’s Day.

Shaving is a nuisance for me so it’s rare I do it more than once every three days.

Except in a typical winter. Then I don’t shave at all.

I remember a lordly economics professor of mine back in Athens who used to boast of his habit of every winter growing his beard on a secular holiday (Halloween) and shaving it on a sacred one (Easter).

His grooming schedule is all I remember about him or his stupid class.

I liked the idea behind it, but as I grew older I found the logic flawed.

Beard-growing should have nothing to do with holidays. For it to make any sense, the reason ought to be meteorological.

That’s why about a decade ago I decided I’d begin growing my beard as soon as I saw a five-day forecast predicting three-consecutive highs below 30 degrees.

A scruffy beard really does fend off winter’s bitter bite.

Then I’d shave it whenever I’d see three consecutive days where the five day predicted three consecutive days above 50.

It makes perfect sense and the custom is celebrated by friends who say my face now portends spring with greater accuracy than Groundhog Phil.

I like it because growing facial hair is cheaper than buying one of those constrictive face masks or scarves.

In fact, if I could I’d each winter grow a thick thatch of full body hair that would eliminate the need for putting on clothes, something else I consider a nuisance.

Will adhering to my custom mean I’ve grown my last beard?

Christmas Eve temperatures nearing the 70s means the only place in America sure to enjoy a truly white Christmas will be the Trump for President rallies.

I wonder if the climate change deniers think the Beach Boys are dupes for having released a ’74 compilation called, “Endless Summer.”

Global warming projections mean the world is likely to endure drought, famine, coastal flooding and other man-made tragedies once written off as “acts of God.”

I’m bumming because it means for our children the end of white Christmas.

Our 9-year-old is asking Santa — she still believes, I think, because she wisely sees no tangible benefits in skepticism — for American Girl doll paraphernalia, a Kindle, games and all the usual crap.

But she’s truly dreaming of a white Christmas. She wants blizzards, closed schools,   treacherous roads, giant snowmen and accumulations clear past her old man’s ass.

In short, she wants everything I dread.

But, oh, if I could only give it to her while she’s still so devastatingly precious.

I revel living a region that traditionally has four distinct seasons. There is something about each to celebrate — and it’s all right there in my back yard.

We live in the woods and there’s a rushing stream that tumbles through our back yard boulders through 50 raucous feet of elevation changes.

It’s magnificent.

There’s one Volkswagen-sized boulder you can only access in spring by hopping over the rapids.

It’s my sanctuary.

I lay there flat on my back and gaze through the swaying tree branches straight up at the sky and think about how I’m maybe the luckiest man in the world.

You may not know it from all the colossal bitching I do here on this blog, but that’s exactly how I feel.

None of the girls has ever busted me being so luxuriously indolent about squandering my time. I’m sure seeing their Dad laying there sprawled out like bear bait would seem weird to them.

It’s not.

It’s soulful.

Now, me laying there wearing a Speedo, that would be weird.

And I have a ready explanation for what I’m doing.

I’m saving the planet.

I intend to tell any interrogators I spend about 15 minutes each day scanning the skies for catastrophic meteors or hostile invaders from distant galaxies.

Just last week I was actually looking for something I fear may soon be even more remote.

I was looking for snowflakes.

It was December 19 and the thermometer read 71 degrees.

I hope someone somewhere with more brains and drive than I is doing something to save the planet and reverse what is looking to me like an endless summer.

Either that or I fear we’re all bound to be beach boys.

Related . . .

I shave my beard; Lucy, 8, generously lops her locks

How my facial hair determines winter is over

 Bad men wear beards

SCOPEtics & the sunny side of global warming

I want a climate change solution and I want it right now!

Roll Tide: The last winter day

I want an overnight solution to climate change & and I want it right now!

(694 words)

My great fear is the aliens will land, approach the first yahoo they see, say “Take me to your leader!” and they’ll be marched straight to Trump.

The historic meeting could be calamitous for both species

But let’s, as we should always strive to do, look at the sunny side of things.

Let’s say the random earthling host is apolitical. Let’s say he or she is like the growing number of adults who don’t obsess over daily news. Let’s say this pivotal person’s leader is someone millions look to for cultural wisdoms.

Let’s say their leader is Ryan Seacrest!

I envision a scenario that we could all describe as, well, cool.

The alien leader will say:

“Oh, wise and noble earthling with the fashionably trimmed chin stubble, our planet is experiencing sudden climate change. We’re freezing our butts off. We’re sick of shoveling snow and our golf games have gone to what you call hell.

“Our sensors, however, detect you earthlings have ingeniously managed to in a relatively few years raise the average temperature of your planet to a nicely toasty level.

“We’re soliciting your aid. We want you to teach us these proven techniques so we can raise the temperature of our planet so it’s always warm and humid. It’s either that or we have no choice but to all move to Tampa. Will you consider extending us your proven expertise?

“We will pay you in glaciers.”

I’d trust even Seacrest to handle those planet-saving negotiation.

I’ve looked and found no antonym for doomsday, a word that connotes the apocalyptic end for one and all.

There ought to be a word for a day when everyone on the planet has a simultaneous fantastic day, a day when Jews and Muslims high-five, when the Koch brothers and Hilary hug, a day when Tom Brady out of reflexive human joy squeezes Roger Goodell so hard his balls deflate.

And Goodell roars at the irony.

Today, President Obama is in Alaska to highlight the perils of global warming. Of course, he couldn’t do even this without controversy. He by lordly fiat changed the name of Mt. McKinley to Denali.

I don’t know who this Denali guy is, but I’ll bet he’s one of Obama’s Muslim buddies from Kenya.

Either way, today’s shaping up to be a pretty depressing day for those of us who care about the environment.

We’ll be inundated with North Pole visuals of marooned walrus, receding glaciers and raging forest fires in places where there used to be only snow.

And we’ll view these images fully aware that at any moment one of them could be photobombed by one of the Palins.

So you can see why I woke up with the word doomsday on my mind.

I’m one of of those guys who is too impatient for incremental solutions to monumental problems. 

I’ve heard experts say we can combat climate change with steadfast care that will chip away at centuries of corrosiveness.

Well, lah-de-dah.

Who the hell has time for that?

I want someone to announce they’ve found earth’s thermostat and — voila! — they bumped it back down to room temperature.

I want somebody to say they’ve discovered a giant stoppered drain in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and all we need to do to combat rising sea levels is to pull the plug and leave it out for about a month or so.

Ocean-front property will be back on the beach where it belongs.

I’ve written a bunch this summer about my resistance to change. Moving my office from above one bar to one that’s above three bars was very traumatic.

Oh, how did I ever cope with such upheaval?

Go ahead. Take a wild guess.

So, obviously, the idea of dramatic climate change is unsettling.

I hope one day we can celebrate a climate change solution that is the opposite of doomsday, a day when we’re told the sunny side of things won’t be so scorching.

It’ll be a day when the rising seas crest and even those of us who are skeptical of his dubious talents can celebrate with a guy named Ryan Seacrest.

Related . . .

Farewell Pond office! I am outta here . . .

Caesar Flickerman not real so NBC will stick with Brian Williams

Who can help me quit caring so much?

SCOPEtics & the sunny side of global warming

Roll Tide: The last winter day

Impeach Obama

Roll Tide: The Last Winter Day

One day after reading climate change means that Pennsylvania will in 50 years resemble Alabama it snowed like Alaska and left me in a state of confusion.

As recent snows go, this one had catastrophic aspects. We got about a foot of the heavy stuff. Trees and power lines were downed, schools were closed, all our lives disrupted.

And I felt euphoric.

Talk murky climate change statistics all you want, but when a guy like me is cheering for winter, chaos really reigns. Me rooting for winter is like Mitt Romney rooting for $2.15 a gallon for unleaded.

In advance of our Alabamian atmospherics, let’s call it cotton-pickin’ crazy.

I summed up my all-consuming hatred for winter in the midst of record snowfall from February 2010 when I wrote this post, “All Snowmen are Abominable.”

What’s odd is we didn’t get winter until spring. And it’s gone in 24 hours.

I’ve had hangovers that have lasted longer than this winter did.

I’m reluctant to opine on global warming for fear of instigating the mercurial hot heads who contend against all reason that nothing weird’s happening with the weather. They are Global Warming SCOPEtics, people who believe we can still use fossil fuels with reckless abandon and everything will still wind up all green and minty fresh.

I’m not so sure and I’m starting to feel nostalgic for something I used to hate.

I fear Monday was the last day of winter. And by last day of winter, I don’t mean this winter season, which was non-existent. We had maybe three snows since October, none of them at all consequential.

I mean the last day of winter. The last day of snows. The last day of closed schools. The last day of snowball fights, snowmen and snow angels. The last day of sled riding.

As an optimist, I try and think of the bright side of climate change -- and by bright side I mean SPF 451.

You’d think year-round summer should improve my golf scores, but I’ll likely spend more time tending to the non-native kudzua overtaking our dogwoods so it might be a wash.

Worst of all, I’ll spend a lot of time regaling youngsters with my recollections of what the world used to be like.

And I’ll think of yesterday.

Thanks to the most efficient school closing announcement system in history, I knew something was up at 5:15 a.m. That’s when all three phones in the house started going off like the government was warning of a hostile alien invasion.

It’s like the Greater Latrobe School District wants all the parents of the children they teach to die from pre-dawn heart attacks so we won’t be around to meddle with their mission.

I see a lot of sense in that.

It wasn’t like that when I was a kid. We’d huddle around the radio and listen to long listings of school closings the way I guess Vietnam-era 18 year olds would listen to the war draft lottery.

It would be a mistake to conclude I equate surprise childhood radio announcements that school would be closed with the same emotions as when I learned I was going to become a father.

News of pending fatherhood leads to mixed feelings. Learning school is closed leads to pure jubilation.

We try to preserve that sensation for our daughters. We awoke them yesterday like it was every other school day. They marveled at the snow outside and watched the morning news rapt to see if their school was listed for delay or closure.

“There’s no way they’re closing schools today,” I lied.

Our kindergartner’s never had a snow day. When she saw her school listed “CLOSED,” her face bore the same expression it did December 25 when she came out and saw all the presents under the tree.

If it was our last winter day, we made the very best of it. We had snowball fights, built snowman, made popcorn and snuggled in front of the fire while we watched The Muppet Movie, the vintage 1979 one.

The high today will again be in the 50s and the once stout snowman is stooped and assuming the consistency of tears.

Our one-day winter is over.

Now, if experts are correct, it’ll won’t be until the year 2050 when my lawn is once again shaded white.

Only the white won’t be from snow.

On that day I’ll look back at the days of my youth and wish I wasn’t in the land of cotton.

Look away. Look away.