Rockport

I am here with my husband, who has come for a visit. It is hot and muggy, and we have already hit all of the iced coffee slinging cafes. We tried to swim--on a small semi-circle of sand that stood for a beach. No breeze, no waves, just endless toddlers carrying their water-logged diapers like valiant sailors. We try to read, balanced on the hotel towel, but the damp sand below and the still air send us back to the car to find a better beach.


Our search introduces us to a particularly East-Coastian feature of beaches: fees. Our Californian sensibilities reel from one-two punch of parking and entry ($50 for four hours! $20 to step on the sand!). Of course, the tony neighborhoods provide stimulating visuals and cat-and-the-canary responses. Of course, I wouldn't mind living in a mansion on the cliffs overlooking a private beach... and, certainly, such largesse exists on the West Coast, too. But we cannot help but think of the hundreds of miles of free public beaches in California alone.

The first time, I biked up here on my commuter bike, loaded down with books. It was a nice ride, despite the shoulder pain from my haphazard book-bag (spawned a resolution to buy an actual commuter's bag asap). Stopped for half an hour at a drawbridge, I had an interesting conversation with the cyclist next to me--a boat captain for hire. What a life that would be! I asked him whether his clients shared their food and wine with him. Ah, that'd be a no.