Day at the Beach

This grieving process is no day at the beach (har, har).  Or is it?

My Dad used to take us to the beach a lot when we were kids.  It's a place he always found comfort in.  It's because he grew up in Hawaii, as a surfer island boy.  When I was young, my Dad loved to compare tans to see who was darker.  Being dark and tan was seen as a sign of being like him, I suppose. 

I love the beach too.  I love the sound of the waves.  I love the calmness I feel by being at the beach.  But when I go to the beach, when I take my shirt off, I want to be somewhere I feel comfortable.  So I've taken to going to West Beach in Laguna because it's "the gay beach."  And I just feel more comfortable being nearly naked around my own people.  It's just the way it is. 

And I find the parade of speedos and other questionable swimwear entertaining. 

I went to West Beach yesterday, which felt like a world away from my life is Los Angeles, even though it's only an hour away.  I got there and I could park easily, which for me is a deciding factor on whether or not I'm venturing an hour away.  When I got there no body was there.  A few homely looking gays.  But within 20 minutes, everyone descended.  I guess 12 PM is the magic hour.  And then it got a little busy.  But it was a lot of fun.  Lots of walks, lots of checking dudes out and lots of body surfing. 

That's what Dad loved to do.  Not the checking dudes out.  But the body surfing.  He taught me and my brother to body surf.  IT was a lot of fun to get washed up in the waves and to remember all of the simple laughter I had growing up just going to the beach.

Simpler times.  I looked totally ridiculous out there, but that was part of the fun.