South County as We Northern RI'rs Call It

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Lido's, Olivo's and Scarborough beach. You probably know of the last one but not the first two. When I was a kid we'd always go to Lido's, which is part of Scarborough now. My Dad avoided Olivo's because in his words, back in the late 60's, it was a “hippy beach.” All I ever saw of it was the name, stenciled on it's roof in white shingles. I guess it was the changing cabana?

I loved the beach as a kid. What kid doesn't? You have the right to get covered in dirt and mud and so what, you can wash it off right there. I was a decent enough swimmer to avoid drowning and I never did venture further out than I felt was OK. I wasn't creeped out by living creatures and seaweed brushing against my leg either. Lucky for me I never met any jelly fish.

In my teens, the beach took on a different meaning. When your a kid, you pretty much care little for how you “look.” As a teen, I was assuredly aware of my blinding white Irish skin. I had wished I had the tan of a California surfer and tried to get one to no avail.

One time, thinking it would work, I used Hawaiin Tropic tanning oil. The stuff smells wonderful too, all coconut-ty and such. The problem is that it works like bacon fat. I slathered that stuff on and laid out. All that did was give myself a nice second degree sunburn where you blister up nicely. Ouch! It was one of those sunburns where freshly laundered sheets on my bed, when they brushed my burned chest as I moved, felt like sandpaper.

Not willing to quit, I switched over to Bain de Soleil. That old commercial were something else. You'd see this French model, with a perfect tan, relaxing in the Riviera. That nice little jingle, “Bain de Soliel...for that San Tropez tan” is nothing but pure smut!

That stuff was just orange grease when you squeezed it out of its tube. I had hopes I'd at least get a Scarborough, Rhode Island tan. All it did was make my shoulder acne worse. I got another sunburn too. On the bright side, I smelled of tangelos.

I gave up. In my 20s at the beach, I'd wear an open peach/turquoise/pink/lime collared Oxford shirt. It was made of Egyptian cotton which is great stuff and I can't seem to find shirts made of it anymore. They're actually pretty cool even on humid days.

The beach in our 20's might have included laying out, which I never did as I wasn't trying tan, though I may be lying down because drinking beer in the summer sun tends to knock you down. The beach now became a nightclub/pickup joint/possible new girlfriend meeting place.

Alot of girls from Worcester come down to the Misquamicut beaches. It's actually a shorter drive than it is to the Cape. I met one group of girls and this ONE, who had that look only a guy can describe (Guys know it when we see it and it's quite personalized too). Anyway, I was zeroed in on her.

“You're from Deerfield? Wow, you came a long way huh?” I say to start up that conversation.

“Yeah, me and the girls are all from Deerfield...is this your first time to the beach?” she asks.

Now, this was in early August.

“No” I say “I've been to Misquamicut every week.”

“Really?” As she says that, she's looking at my Irish white chest as my South Miami coral shirt is opened up.

Shit. That one didn't go anywhere. I was too white for her.

Here's a risque story about beaches I'll tell.

Everything's a learning curve in life. This includes what girls are. For we boys are clueless as hell when we start dating you.

Actually, we both learned of something that effects the girls only.

I once had a wonderful summertime girlfriend. We both enjoyed each other's company but it was not that deep it was moderately shallow anyway as relationships go. Hey, it's summertime.

Anyways, after seeing a band at the Ocean Mist in Matunuck, she and I went for a boozy walk down the beach around 1 AM I guess. It's pretty black at night there, you can barely see where you're walking. So I'm a young man, with this pretty girl who was more than willing to play and down onto the sand we go. We're making out and one thing leads to another.

Umm, about two minutes in she starts yelping, “Stop...Stop! STOP! STOP!” Being a guy and completely drunk in sexual happiness, I respond; “Huh? What?”

She sits up...”Christ..I think I got sand in me!”

Now I being male, who doesn’t have to deal with female plumbing nor understand it well, can't figure out this one.

“Sand? What does that have to do with anything?”

“God..it's like sandpaper...” she goes on.

I process this for a bit then realize, 2 + 2 = 4. I finally figure it out. Romantic tip: Bring a large, blue tarp with you if you're thinking of any playtime on a sandy beach!

I don't get to the beach as often as I promise myself too. Hell, the people I know now have to mount a D-Day style invasion to go to the beach, because they have KIDS! So it's not, “gas up the car, get the beer and off we go” anymore. Though that would be fun to do again. Hell, the marrieds I know now would LOVE it. Ditch the wife and kids and make believe they're 23 again.

When I go to the beach now, I'm still lily white. But now I see young men with 0.001% body fat and young women who look like the Bain de Soliel bikini girl. Still, I enjoy it for what it is. If I spend enough time there, there is a definite mood change in me that's quite nice to have.

The beach never has changed. It smells the same. The waves crash and the sun baked sand still burns my feet. The young still play that flirtation game with one another and always will.