Observing Lakeside Leisure
A summer of beach walks
It may officially be fall, but it was 75 and sunny all weekend, so mentally I’ve yet to let go of slathering on sunscreen and having sand stick to my skin. I’ve been walking the same beach all summer. It’s on a bay in Northern Michigan where this particular corner of a vast lake serves as the backyard to various cottage communities. The kind where generations of the same families return each summer to swim, grill hot dogs, eat cherries, and sigh over the area’s natural beauty before complaining about their neighbors in the next breath.
Most days I’ve strolled the shoreline in my swimsuit and baseball cap, letting the waves kick up around my shins, as I toddle between being transfixed by the clear waters and observing everyone else out in the sun. There’s a usual cast of characters I like to check in on — they’re all strangers, but for about half of them, there’s a basic recognition of one another. We’ll do a polite head nod as I walk by, sometimes saying things like “can’t beat this weather!” in a buoyant trill and that’s that. But I’m always intrigued to see what they’re up to. Is she in the red gingham bikini again? Is the daughter in town? Is this sandcastle better than last week’s?
Paddle boards, kayaks and canoes, Sunfish and catamarans are tucked up on the edge of the dunes or left at the shoreline for a brief interval between watery jaunts. There’s a sailboat called Catnip, another called Tuna Fish II. Sand pails and shovels are scattered every so often. All manner of lounge chairs, but it’s the ones with the thick plastic straps that I adore. We have the short navy chairs, Menonaqua has long white ones, and then there’s the family with loungers that are mustard yellow and seem like they’re plucked from the 1970s.
Every summer since I don’t know when, I check in on the yellow chairs. There are six loungers. On June 2nd they were stacked in two sets of three in the dunes and it gave me such a thrill to see them again: summer had arrived. Within a matter of days they were arranged in their usual line up with tiny tables in between, yellow and white patterned cushions laid atop. They belong to a yellow cottage with white trim and the commitment to a color theme is part of what makes me adore these chairs and need to take them in on every beach walk.
Most of the time, they sit empty. When the family’s there, it’s always a woman in a turquoise bikini resting on a towel in the exact same hue, and a man in matching trunks with three bottles of Coppertone sunscreen on the table to his left. The sunscreens stay on the table all day and night which is definitely not what Coppertone advises you to do. But they never looked sunburned and most days I spot them, they’re sleeping and look so serene. A postcard of “on holiday.” On a shockingly hot Saturday in July, they erect a turquoise umbrella and I am furious. They have deviated from the theme and despite it matching their swimsuits, it’s hideous. I feel a sense of righteousness when the umbrella never makes another appearance after that weekend.
At the pink house, the matriarch sits in a folding chair at the water’s edge while her daughter bobs in a mint green inner tube, twenty feet away. They’re both in sunglasses and baseball caps, one navy, one white. The daughter faces her mother and whilst reclined tells her that it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t see Susan as her new best friend, sometimes it’s just nice to have someone over for a girls’ night and gossip. Mom replies, “but I just don’t find her all that interesting.” “Ok fine, but still, it’s good to let people in.” “Yes. Just not Susan.”
Two weeks later, the mom is back at the water’s edge, reclined and with eyes closed, holding a glass of iced tea with lemon in her hand. Another woman about her age is seated next to her telling a story about her cruise to Cabo. She’s barely listening, just quietly sipping her iced tea with nary a nod or “mhmm” thrown in, and I can’t help but surmise that this must be Susan talking about swim-up bar strawberry daiquiris.
Today she sits alone. Same chair, same set up with her toes dipped in the water. White hat, iced tea, and a black one piece that feels like one of those lucky on-a-whim orders that turns out to be smashingly beautiful. She’s gazing out at the water with a hint of a smile. I want to tell her that she’s definitely better off without Susan, but cower and only utter “hi.”
Perched atop the white loungers with matching striped towels are two women deep in conversation. One has a blunt salt and pepper bob and wears a hot pink and cadmium red strapless number. Red’s her color. When she’s not wearing this suit, she’s in a high waisted red gingham bikini or a solid one piece that resembles a classic lifeguard uniform. Her nails, of course, are bright red.
The other always has her legs elegantly crossed atop, and wears two different versions of a leopard print one piece and huge sunglasses. She seems like the type who’s been wearing espadrilles for decades, but there’s only a simple pair of black sandals by her chair. They’re both in wide brimmed straw sun hats that look expensive even from a distance. The one with red swimsuits reminds me of Ada Katz, and I want to tell her that I keep picturing her painted in large swaths of color, but everything about their body language screams that their conversations are not to be interrupted.
I guess that they’re sisters, or have been best friends since they were fourteen. There’s an ingrained familiarity between them and they always look to be in their own little world. The few times I spot them not chatting, they’re absorbed in books. They each have straw beach bags, which I like to believe came from the same place where they bought their hats. I imagine the bags filled with thick novels, fancy sunscreen, linen cover ups, plastic wine glasses, and a sleek cooler holding a chilled bottle of Chardonnay.
It’s three in the afternoon and five small girls are sitting in the cold stream, arms folded over their heads. It’s a contest: who can withstand the frigid water the longest. They don’t scream, they don’t egg each other on. Instead, in a rainbow assortment of wildly patterned and vibrantly hued suits, they behave like an earthy coven invested in the restorative powers of a cold plunge. The one in the neon orange suit with a tight braid plaited down her back and a dozen friendship bracelets tied to her wrists tells them to “just breathe, like, slowly, ok?” They all oblige and make a show of taking a long, lengthy breath. Ten minutes later, they’re still sitting peacefully, and I’m in awe.
The next day, the girls are building a sandcastle. It’s nearly two feet tall, with distinct patterns made of collected sticks and shells adorning each tier. One girl is carefully placing bird feathers on the eastern wing of the castle while another is organizing shells by their size. A moat is being dug and which shells should decorate the highest tower is being discussed. They are each covered in sand, with ponytails sagging low or barely still tied in place. I tell them it’s the best sandcastle I’ve seen on the beach all summer. In a yellow and white striped swimsuit that looks as cheerful as can be, the ringleader looks right back at me and says “we know,” and gets back to work.
Lovely post. I had a weird flashback to my childhood reading the words Coppertone. I didn't know it still existed.