People take forever. Especially when it comes to packing up at the beach. I would know because I’ve just spent two weeks in a quiet, charming, old-fashioned town on the Jersey shore. The beach is populated by all kinds of people with one thing in common - they can’t pack up and leave to save their lives.
I’m acutely aware of these Slow Leavers because I usually get to the beach at prime leaving time - I don’t know why everyone doesn’t arrive at 4 - it’s perfect.
Except that it means you have to deal with a lot of leaving.
I stare at them, these Leavers, with alternate wonder and annoyance, mainly the latter. Especially because their never-ending pack-up routine blocks my view of the ocean, which is kind of why I’m here. There I am, sitting with a book, behind what looks like a lovely group, when they decide it’s time to go home. Or at least I think that’s what they decide. It’s hard to tell. Some of them get to their feet. Coolers are opened. Thermoses and sandwiches are stashed. But then they pause. Nod in agreement with something that’s being said on the blanket. And plop down again. Just a pre-pack, I think. They’re staying. But no. They pop back up. Shorts are shimmied into. Sundresses are thrown on.
I’m wearing the olive green bathing suit I’ve gravitated toward lately because I think it’s a good color for me (although no one has ever said so.) I have similar ones in navy and black that rarely make it out of the dresser drawer. Olive is my girl this summer. Why I think it matters is a fair question, since I rarely remove the tan linen sundress I wear over it. And when I do, I usually tie a sarong around myself. Which isn’t because I hate how I look in a bathing suit - I don’t. I just like how I look in a pretty dress more.
Back to the Leavers. Who may not even deserve that title. They’re dilly-dally-ers. Lollygaggers. Lingerers. And I shouldn’t care how long it takes them to leave but I’m invested.
They stand. Stretch. Crank an umbrella down like they’re being paid by the hour. Ok, I think, now fold up your chairs and be on your way. But they have another idea. They stand around sinking their toes into the sand. Or decide they just have to play a little frisbee. Except they can’t find the frisbee. “It’s in here somewhere,” they mutter, as they dig into the bag they just spent 20 minutes packing. So…they…stand…around…some……..more. Blocking me from the waves I’d like to see.
Often, during this standing-there-for-no-reason session, they come up with something new to discuss.
“Oh my God, did I tell you what she said the other day?”
The teller launches into a reiteration of a comment, in a whiney, high-pitched imitation of the aforementioned “She.” I’m now listening openly. “Ok, so she goes, ‘You still go sleeveless? Wow. You’re brave.’”
The teller nods and “yups” as the mouths of the others drop open. I gasp at the nerve of She, then quickly pretend to read my book.
This is, I have to admit, quite a comment, and worth repeating, but could it not have been done 10 minutes ago, when they were all sitting? They stand, in a semi-circle around the brave sleeveless woman.
“Every time I see her she says I look tired,” one of the others says.
“Oh, I know - the whole ‘you look tired’ thing. Like, hello, I know I have dark circles! You think I don’t know that?”
“She” has also, it seems, made cracks about people’s hair - “She asked if I was letting my roots grow out and I was like, No… I mean, this little bit isn’t even noticeable.” (It is, but I keep this to myself.)
Once they’ve exhausted the litany of insults this She has dealt, they stand, arms folded, looking at the ocean. I crane my neck to see a sliver of it.
Finally, one of them folds her chair. Or tries to. It is, I have to admit, a fact, that folding a beach chair is counterintuitive.
“You have to flop it down and let it fall closed,” the sleeveless one says. I nod in quiet agreement. I’ve now been here 15 minutes, seen 30 seconds of ocean and read one sentence of my book. I could get up and walk to the ocean, but I sit on principle. They started it. Let them finish it.
The rest of the gang flops their chairs down, taking a ridiculously long time to buckle the straps that hold them closed. One of them stays in a crouch, fiddling unsuccessfully. Sleeveless - Brave Sleeveless - bends to help.
“You just have to pinch it closed. Oh wait. Maybe it’s… Oh, I see. You have to turn the buckle this way.”
Just close the fucking chair! I scream in my head. Close it! Close it and go home!
It gets buckled. Finally. One of them straps her chair to her back. I open my book and sink in.
“Jesus. This umbrella. How the hell are you supposed to get it back in the case?”
Sleeveless knows how. Of course she does. I think I might be falling in love with Sleeveless, in spite of my annoyance.
“You have to wrap the thing around it more tightly. Like, really squeeze it together, see? Like it’s wearing a Spanx,” We all chuckle appreciatively. She slides the umbrella into its sleeve. At least one of them is wearing sleeves, I think, and wish I could offer this quip to the group. But I’m not in the group.
Except that I am.
They now have to fold their towels. They’re polite shakers, stepping to the side to flick sand away. Some roll their towels into yodels, others make neat squares, one drapes his over his shoulder, a reckless playboy. They look around, as if they’re leaving a house rental, checking they haven’t left their phones or chargers.
You’re clear! I think. Go!!
They finally do. And I kind of miss them.
But I’m left with a wide-open view of the ocean. I sigh. We’ve been here almost two weeks. Normally, our time away is dotted with guests - we invite people we love to stay a day or two, with a couple of days in between. We love our family-time but we know our limits.
This time, though, we haven’t made plans. No entertaining. No overnight guests. No obligations. We’re wide open. Just us, our books and our bicycles.
Quite the idea.
We’ve been snipping at each other and I’ve been saying “what’s wrong?” a lot. It’s becoming clear that “just us” is better in theory than practice.
I shake my head, then chide myself for daring to feel anything but happy and lucky. So what if we’re getting on each others’ nerves a little? We’re staying at a house that’s two blocks from the beach. I’m getting to the end of Demon Copperhead, which I love. I say “I don’t want it to end” a lot, and I mean it - about the book and this vacation.
The kids arrive and take their places - Ava, on a towel under the umbrella, Ben, on a chair, face to the sun. Philip will make his way here soon enough. This may be a good time to point out that the two of us met and fell in love on a beach.
I watch another group of Leavers. They’re no better at it than the first gang - worse, actually. One of them announces he needs to eat a sandwich just after everything has been packed up. His wife says, “Now?” and the others laugh.
I watch them, chatting, lingering, looking at the ocean, as the sandwich-eater takes a bite. One of the women puts her arm around her friend’s waist and they laugh.
I think of a day, on this very beach, when the kids were little. We’d rented a house and our friends Susie and Ken had come with their kids. We were sun-soaked, tired and relaxed. All four kids had run themselves silly for hours and we adults had that self-congratulatory “they’ll sleep well tonight” look in our eyes. We’d watched the lifeguards pack up (lifeguards are quick Leavers because they’re professionals). After putting the equipment away, they’d flipped their stand down so it laid on its back. It too, would rest well tonight.
The sun became weaker. We put long-sleeved shirts on. The kids were so punch-drunk, they ran in a circle, like a giant, sandy cat chasing its tail. One of them eyed the stand and asked if they could climb on it.
We would have said yes to anything at that moment.
We gave them boosts. Soon, we were all sitting on the edge of the bench, adult feet dangling, kid feet straight out. The ocean was empty, save for a few surfers. We watched them charge into the surf like superheroes and stared at the ocean like it was a movie - the kind where nothing happens but it’s so beautiful, you don’t care.
The sun got lower. Everyone was hungry. Everyone was tired. We needed to leave. But we didn’t. We couldn’t.
I shift in my seat and sigh lazily, thinking I’ll walk to the water’s edge. But I don’t. Ava and Ben are absorbed in their books.
We sit quietly, the three of us, as we’ve done so many times on this beach.
We needed this calm because we’ve been jangled lately.
Ava has a new job - a great one - but it’s complicated.
I freelance, and sometimes say “I’m winding down.” But I have no idea what that means or how to do it.
Philip is navigating his own waters.
And Ben is about to move to Brooklyn.
Which will make us true empty nesters. I think of the heart-thud I felt when Ava moved out and the way its finality hit me full-on. We stood in front of her new apartment hugging goodbye as if she’d moved to Minnesota, not just uptown.
I sang “You’re gonna make it after all,” and said, “You got this, Mary.”
She said, “Thanks, Rhoda,” and I loved that she got the reference.
And now, it’s Ben’s turn to turn the world on with his smile. He needs his independence. Philip and I need to learn to be a grown-up couple, versus a couple with grown-up kids. And yet. I’ll miss him asking if his tie looks ok before work and Philip will miss cooking dinners with him.
It’s silly how much we’re all affected - after all, he’s just going to Brooklyn. I know this. We all do. It doesn’t help.
We’re betwixt and between.
But here - at this moment - we’re present and steady.
Philip will get here soon and we’ll go back to the house, where Philip and Ben will grill burgers and we’ll bite into corn as fresh and tender as childhood. We’ll eat tomatoes that make me proud to be a Jersey girl. We’ll play Exploding Kittens, a game Philip bought and forced us to learn. I still can’t keep the stupid kittens straight but I love it. We all do. Whoever came up with it must have been stoned.
It’s getting chilly and we head back to the house, smiling, as we say hi to cocktail-drinking-people on porches.
I think about the Bad Leavers - of course they kept gossiping about She. Of course they took their time flopping their chairs down. And no, they didn’t want to get their umbrella closed quickly.
Who would?
Saying goodbye is hard.
And no one wants to leave the beach.
If only they didn’t have to.
PS - A shoutout to the one and only perfect Leaver I’ve ever seen. She was gone in less than a minute. You don’t get abs like that by lazing around in a chair, people! (said by one who lazes around in a chair.)
I love how you turned a simple moment at the beach into a pearl.
Shark! (Sorry)