BEACH SONGS

It's still summer here on the Vineyard. BOY is it summer!

BEACH SONGS

There was something in the air at Menemsha the other day that inspired music. I don’t mean the boom box kind that’s so common on some beaches. I mean real music. I’m a people watcher (and listener). I watch people where ever I go; restaurants, grocery stores, movie theaters, the ferry. One of the best places for people watching is the beach. I’ve found that when people shed most of their clothes they also shed a lot of their inhibitions. Let’s face it--when a woman bares her upper thighs what more does she have to lose? The beach has a symphony of its own. The rhythm of the sea lapping on the shore and kadima balls being batted back and forth. The shriek of children playing in the surf, indistinguishable from the cry of gulls soaring over head. The drone of conversations and the tinkling cascade of laughter. They all come together like the instruments in an orchestra, or a church choir.
When you live on Martha’s Vineyard, going to the beach becomes as much a ritual as a Passover Seder or Christmas dinner. You have long ago separated the necessary from the expendable. The parking space you find can be either two steps from the sand or a fair trek to the walkway that leads to the sand, so it pays to pack light. Even when I had small children we never took much more than a towel, sun tan lotion and a gallon of lemonade. Now that I’m older with a bad back and a fear of skin cancer I need a chair and an umbrella, but true to the beach going spirit of my youth, they both fold up and fit neatly in a sack with a shoulder strap. I often look at young couples with children, coolers, tents, strollers, toys, and umbrellas spread out on the beach around me and think that if these young men had been smart they would have insisted on prenuptial agreements delineating the amount of stuff they would be required to drag to the beach. Some things are more important than money. But back to Menemsha.
I had arrived, copped a parking space right next to the sand and in one trip set up my camp for the day. Sitting in the chair, I had just opened the latest Victoria Trumbull mystery by my friend Cynthia Riggs. Suddenly the air filled with the muted tones of a Chopin piano concerto. I looked around and realized this surprising choice of music was drifting in from a sailboat in the mooring field. A pleasant change from the usual beach fair that even my daughter calls ‘rap crap’. (I realize this sounds harsh considering how many millionaires the genre has produced but my feeling is if it doesn’t have a melody it isn’t music. Even some of Aaron Copeland’s music sounds like a car accident to me) Shortly thereafter I enjoyed a second musical interlude when a family of four arrived and distributing their ‘stuff’ sang several impromptu choruses of Take Me Out To The Ball Game. I sometimes think the sheer joy of vacationing in such an eden as Martha’s Vineyard can cause people to bubble over with pleasure.
The rest of the afternoon passed in relative quiet until just before I decided to pack it in for the day. I was gazing out to sea enjoying the incredible view when a distinguished looking middle aged gentleman somewhat to my right suddenly laid down his book and spontaneously exploded into song. To my delight it was a favorite aria from Tosca. In Italian no less! I’m sure the book didn’t inspire this uninhibited display even though it was one of Phil Craig’s. No, it must have been the sheer joy of a beautiful day at the beach.