Beachside California

We always expect it will be so much hotter,
and then even with the open stare of the noonday sun
searing across our backs and our ankles,
a breeze sent straight from the sea gives us the chills
and dissipates the beading dewdrop sweat from our brows.

You can see the elastic bands cutting away at waists and thighs,
clinging there so tightly, creating small mounds of skin on each side.
And the plump little teenage arms beam a pale crimson,
embraced by the sunlight and the thick white lotion
that still streaks in thin racing stripes across their backs.

Our towels attract the sand that flings from passing heels,
and so it sticks to our stomachs and gets into our hair,
where it grinds our scalps in little gravelly bits
until we take to the ocean and swim in the frothy tide
as it kisses the beach again and again.

Where the shoreline is left damp we dig for sandcrabs,
following the air bubbles. Outwardly we are brave
but inwardly we hope we don't find any--a vacant shell is enough.
Their wriggling, burrowing bodies always startle us
when one ends up amid the clumped wet sand in our cupped hands.

Sea glass and shells and sand dollars are never abundant,
because everyone searches for something, special to only them,
a keepsake memory that revives the smells and sounds of the ocean.
Bulbs of seaweed and swarming flies hide treasures
from the prying fingers and eyes of both adult and child.

Soon enough the sun turns the horizon a little bit purple
and a little bit pink as it sinks behind it all.
The lifeguard booths and reclining mesh chairs are empty now;
the water is not quite warm enough for our toes anymore
so we clamber back to our towel-carpeted stations.

Saltwater stings our shoulders where the burn is deepest red,
and it dries into a sticky second skin that itches
as we shield each other and replace our suits and shirts.
We pad barefoot from the cooling sand to the welcoming asphalt,
ready to turn our engines and be delivered from the coming evening.

Slowly we return, and we coax our minds into believing
that a Saturday or two spent amused at the beach is just that:
amusement, and that our lives will scrape and fall and burrow
just like those sandcrabs, until we too shed our shells and again
take to the sand, trying always to escape the hands that would trap us.