Life's a Beach

Memorial Day weekend in Brooklyn. This was our yellow light in preparation for beach season. Ma and Nana had their own rituals and paraphernalia to ready. The red metal Coca-Cola cooler, beach chairs, sand chairs, umbrellas, picnic bags, towels, blankets, hats, lotion, shovels, pails and a pink spaldeen ball. When Joe and Tina joined us, we brought paper plates and plastic forks for her eggplant parm and a radio blaring Cousin Brucie. When Uncle Tom went, we brought a rosary.

You might think our choice of beaches was limited, living in the urban cement jungle of Crooklyn. You would be wrong. There was a bunch. Coney Island was a classic choice. This was a favorite locale for Nana and Grandpa. We would haul our supplies on the F- Train; take it to the last stop and find a choice spot to while away the day. Once settled, Grandpa would race with me from the blanket and dive straight into the waves as they broke. Nana always wore a hat and her sailor dress bathing suit. She would gingerly walk into the water up to the hem of her skirt and then dip down to cool herself off while yelling at Grandpa in Italian not to splash. Nana liked to pack cheese, salami, fruit and cookies. She always brought a thermos of Hawaiian Punch and another of coffee. Sitting on her plaid blanket, Nana would talk about the beaches in Sicily and tell me my eyes reminded her of the Mediterranean Ocean. Her lilting voice would often lull me to sleep with the hot sand warming my back.

During the week, Ma sometimes brought us to Coney Island by train. We would bring a bag lunch, towels, a blanket and umbrella. It was “Coney Island Lite.” On the way home, Ma would give us a choice of either fresh spun cotton candy or one of the rides in the kiddie park. I loved the chugging sounds of the PT boats as much as ringing the brass bell. Guess I was meant for the Navy even at a young age. I remember one particular afternoon when Ma told Cetta she didn’t have to share the sugared pompom because I made my choice to go on the ride. She shrugged her shoulders and said it didn’t matter. I was her sister; she didn’t want me to choose. Sisters rock.

Sometimes we would go to Brighton Beach. It was calmer than Coney Island and typically filled with older Jewish patrons who were quick to scold you for kicking up sand---however slight (or invisible) it might be. The beach would be in front of us and to the far right were scores of rental cabanas. Coming here meant a side trip to Mrs. Stahl’s or Shatzkins for freshly made potato knishes. The varieties were amazing and nothing compares to a meal of hot bagels and cold Nehi sodas after a day in the hot sun.

Manhattan Beach in Sheepshead Bay (which Ma pronounced “Shipshead”) was close to the campus of Kingsborough Community College. It catered to a mix of families, college kids and jocks. The basketball pickup games played there are legendary and still rank in the top ten competitive blacktop hoops nationwide. The shore line is smaller than Coney Island and Brighton Beach but there are treed picnic areas where friends would hang a hammock and set up their hibachi to grill lunch and dinner. Years later, Concetta and I both attended Kingsborough; I minored in hanging out at the beach. Concetta was still the good sister and went to every class.

Riis Park was technically in Queens but we claimed it as our own. The water was rough enough for a surfing bay and it also had the first (and only) topless bay as well. The art deco bath house was magnificent and continuously cleaned. They had a nine-hole pitch and putt that Ma, Poppie and I would play at least twice a month. Those were great dog day afternoons. Riis Park was originally designed as a resort for poor immigrants and the beach Nana and Grandpa preferred. They would drive there from Red Hook and then Bensonhurst until Grandpa was in a car accident in the parking lot. Poppie and Uncle Tom insisted he give up his driver’s license, concerned that being in his mid-sixties slowed his reactions to a dangerous degree. After that, they simply took the train to Coney Island. Poppie, of course, never surrendered his driver’s license. I can’t imagine who would have had the balls to take it from him.

At one time, Nana and Grandpa owned property at Fire Island in New York. They bought the beach house as a family retreat and envisioned all of us Vellas vacationing there together. One day Grandpa received a letter from the bank that held his mortgage which informed him they sold the paper to another institution. Grandpa was furious; he took it as an insult that the original lender viewed him as a risk. In a rage, Grandpa sold the house on Fire Island and with the proceeds paid off the mortgage on West 1st Street. Within ten years, it became one of the hottest vacation properties around. It is still really popular with artists, musicians, actors and has an extremely large, infamous gay community as well. Hmm, who knew?

We were definitely a beach family, staying from early in the morning until late afternoon. All of us were brown as berries well before Labor Day. We didn’t use suntan lotion let alone sun block. In fact, Ma made her own brew of baby oil and iodine. We slathered it on ourselves; combined with the saltwater we were like living French fries! Poppie would always set the blanket close enough to the water so that when high tide came in and skimmed the blanket, we knew it was time to leave. I find it more than a little ironic that Cetta and I both married men who completely dislike the beach.

Poppie lived for summer weekends. His beach trips were a combination of strategic planning and playtime. It was “storming the beach at Normandy” meets “Romper Room”. We started off with jumping waves, body surfing and swimming followed by a shoreline walk searching for shells or pulling mussels off the rocks. When we returned to the blanket, he laid down and pretended to sleep as we buried him in the sand. By the time we finished, he woke up and pretended to be surprised by the mountain of sand on top of him. He would break free and chase us into the water. After a bit Ma would join us in the surf, float for awhile and then stand on her head as the waves broke around her. Then it was time for lunch.

Sometimes, very rarely, we had sandwiches. More often there were spinach pies, cold chicken, home-made pizza, potato pie, a variety of fruit and who knows what else. It was a veritable smorgasbord. Ma would insist we waited at least an hour before going back into the water. Sometimes we played catch or running bases before finding just the right spot to construct a fortress. Poppie was a master at building sand castles. He taught me how to mix just the right amount of water and muddy sand to create a strong foundation. He especially liked to fill the moats with water and would dig up clam shells with his feet to use as decorations. It was a great distraction while we baked in the sun waiting to get back into the water.

Sometimes the smell of hot tar mixed with saltwater brings me back to those beach excursions. Certain foods, songs or even outdoor trappings makes me yearn for a simpler time when all I had to do was jump in the back seat of a car or subway and a magical day at the beach would simply materialize around me. Even now, I drift towards the beach to quiet my mind or my soul. If I squint just right I can still see that pie-chart umbrella ruffled by a breeze, a pair of knocked-knee legs sticking out of the water with waving feet held high and a fun-filled Italian family enjoying life as it was meant to be.