I used to have a beach body. I would tear off my shirt the moment I hit the sand, not an ounce of fat on my frame. I’d race into the waves with wild abandon. Come bounding out to sweep the wet mop of hair off my forehead. Stroll past bikini girls on blankets with my smiling face held high. I was rock solid. I was freewheeling. I was full of summer confidence.
I was 9 years old.
Things are a bit different at the beach these days. I recently returned from a week in California, where I took my extended family for a summer vacation, the kind I used to enjoy so much in my younger years, and by “younger” I mean “before I knew what melanoma meant.”
Back then, sun was encouraged. It was begged for. My parents would lie in beach chairs holding silver tanning
reflectors to their chests, their bodies drenched in cocoa butter. I myself thought nothing about going shirtless all day long, and looked forward to how red I could get in a single day of blazing hot rays.
Today, having been harangued by every dermatologist I know, I step onto the beach the way an astronaut steps out of the lunar module. I cover every ounce of skin. Long sleeves. Long pants. Socks. Floppy hat.
And sunscreen? I bathe in the stuff. My face is so covered in white, I might as well be a sugar doughnut.
A sight for all to see
But avoiding the sun is only one thing that’s changed with age about the beach. And, truth be told, it’s not the only reason I no longer rip off my shirt.
The kids populating California beaches today, high schoolers who look like collegians, collegians who look like supermodels, are so ripped, so sculpted, so well-proportioned and so nearly, what’s the word I’m looking for — naked — that I’m afraid exposing my more-than-middle-aged topless bod would cause the whole beach to turn and say, “Oh, man, we’re so sorry.”
It’s not like you can find a private cove. The beaches in SoCal summers are not only jam packed with tourists, but some folks seem to be moving in. Gone are the days of a single towel and a transistor radio. Now visitors arrive with giant tents, massive coolers, large iPad screens and a phalanx of foldable chairs with cup holders. They don’t sit as much as stake a claim. All that’s missing is the covered wagon and a flagstick.
And then there’s the sea itself. Once, the Pacific Ocean was a magical waterworld, a salty wet playground of constant motion and body surfing.
Now, it’s a place you go to tempt fate.
Troubled waters
I’m not kidding. We were warned, before even stepping foot on the beach, that the currents this summer were so strong that a 5-year-old was swept out to sea.
As a result, none of our party ventured any deeper than knee level. Forget body surfing. Good way to get a concussion. Forget diving under the waves and swimming. Good way to get the lifeguard chasing you.
Or bitten by a shark.
Oh, yeah. Southern California is experiencing a “sharky summer,” complete with numerous great white sightings. Apparently, the weather patterns and unseasonably warm waters have drawn the sharks crazy close to the shore, sometimes within feet of the swimmers, which is enough to send anyone from the “Jaws” generation running for the nearest Shake Shack.
One other thing that age changes about the beach: There’s so much sand. Did we never notice this before? It sticks everywhere, your toes, your shins, the back of your knees. It’s in your hair, it’s in your bathing suit, it’s in your crotch. You traipse it back to your room and then it’s in your bed. And, hey, look, there’s tar on the bottom of your feet. How did that get there?
Which brings us back to where we began, the body, which I inspect now after a day at the beach in precisely the opposite way I used to, not holding my arm against my belly to see how dark I got, but preening into the mirror at the red on my nose and praying I didn’t just give myself skin cancer.
So, yeah, I used to have a beach body. But I used to have a high voice, too. The years change everything. I can still relate to those Beach Boys lyrics: "T-shirts, cutoffs, and a pair of thongs/ We've been having fun all summer long."
Just inside.
Contact Mitch Albom: malbom@freepress.com. Check out the latest updates on his charities, books and events at MitchAlbom.com. Follow @mitchalbom on x.com.
This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Mitch Albom: A beach day, when you're older, is no day at the beach
