Life is a Beach

My first mistake was asking my wife to record me on the camcorder walking the bulkhead rocks of a jetty below the boardwalk of Atlantic City, NJ. My second mistake was not realizing how miserable my wide body looks and feels these days. An honest mistake, I suppose I got caught up in the scenery - The seashore for a visiting shoobie. Abundant sunshine. An intoxicating breeze aiding high tide coming in. Ah, it seemed like the right moment and the right backdrop to capture a natural home movie clip.

My sneakers spit sand in my jaunt to the jetty. I hopped with glee across the first few rocks then came a harrowing moment of self-awarenes. I realized too late that my ginger waltz not only must have looked effeminate for the camera but it has been recorded for prosperity. The next couple of steps I faced the challenge of a grating slope, some further spaced rocks, and an ocean trying to reduce my land to sand with the next wave. With the ocean to my left and right, it was like walking the plank. I did not feel my mortality all at once but rather in steps.

My proud desired stride shortened to a laughable length. I tried to make light of my frailty by turning back and looking at the camera. The wind parted my hair in a way that I realized a shortage of follicles. I begin to breathe heavier than I should for this little exertion. In my mind’s eye, I could see myself in action and it wasn't pretty. I took a few steps forward and am reminded how embarrasingly different this much look than the bleached blonde surfer dudes attacking the beach to my left.

Further out on the jetty, ocean pushes itself up onto the rocks. The slime coat created underneath my footprints is a slippery slope. My left foot kicks out like an accident acting to happen. My balance shifts. It is treacherous sailing and I consider turning back. I fret about falling but manage a Joe Cool wave back to my wife. She makes no reaction. I knew that I looked like an old man but prayed that my wife didn’t see me for who I am.

I entertain irrational thoughts like hitting my head, falling unconscious, and being swept up by the sea to a death by drowning. I visualize the headlines in the obituaries of the Atlantic City Press. Ripley’s Believe It or Not Man Who Defied Death Strangely Dies Near His Museum Exhibit.

With more than 50 yards of the jetty ahead of me to conquer, I make a surrender plea. I turn back around. My feet shuffle along the same wet rocks. My steps can now be measured in inches. Nursing home patients would lap me. My hands wing out to the sides to brace a potential fall. My wife continues to film me and I am too preoccupied to tell her to silence production. In the end, I made my way back to shore without falling. My goal to conquer the jetty like a he-man was replaced by a middle age concession of not falling down and getting hurt.

The ordeal looked even more pathetic on the playback of the high definition camcorder.