Life's a Beach, Part 3

Mother Nature Calls the Tune, "Weather" We Like It Or Not

Photo by Christina Victoria Craft on Unsplash

This is the third installment in our series endeavoring to help folks with the success of their vacation by discussing some of the potential risks at the beach, with strategies for prevention and treatment if needed. Previous articles covered such lovely hazards as acute sunburn and eye injuries from blowing sand, as well as assorted stings, bites and blisters of the critters living here. Today’s rambling missive attempts to depict the sometimes precipitous nature of Nature’s Wrath, so hold on to your fancy leopard-skin pillbox hat.

It was a beautiful day on the Gulf of Texas, the kind that makes fishing buddies smile and go fishing. The scene was serene as we casually erected the iconic blue Academy canopy. We then sent our sporty Jet-Kite up high in the sky, watched it make a few lazy loops, and then popped up our Solbello shade, which began to rustle gently in the salty sea breeze. Life was good.

Joe decided to get in his steps and lit out to walk the beach. Mere minutes later, while intently engaged in rigging the tackle, I got quite a start when a sudden motion caught the corner of my eye. The canopy was not only moving, it was sliding away fast. A powerful wind had exploded without warning, and was now vaulting it towards the homes at quickening speed. It was about to launch, slowed only by the gallon jug I had tied to it as an afterthought. Yikes!

With a mad dash I scarcely got to it in time, and barely managed to interrupt the take-off, but it was a very tenuous stoppage, as the wind continued in crescendo well past 30 knots, pinning me fast to my post, grimacing and scanning frantic to all sides for any sign of help. Help!

But help was not forthcoming, as everyone was caught off guard, also fully occupied with keeping their earthly things from going heavenly. So there I clung, fists clenching white, monkey toes digging into the sand, and the vicious gale thrashing everything into a frenzy. Oh, Mama.

Harrowing seconds turned to minutes as the fierce blow raged on, whipping us hard, not letting up, and rapidly crushing any hope for a pause in the unrelenting torrent of the impetuous roaring tempest.

Bracing like a stubborn mule, I released one grip and made a desperate grab for one of the velcro straps holding the canvas to the frame. This released enough pressure for me to reach another strap and by the third one, I was able to overcome the wilding beast and scrunch it into a pile that stayed put, albeit in a configuration that may have differed ever so slightly from its originally intended geometry …

But wait, there’s more! Our little kite was now spinning like a whirling dervish, well out of control and making kamikaze dives at passing cars. Lunging from the subdued canopy over to the truck, I snatched the rod from its holder and began the fight to reel in the feisty aircraft before it smacked somebody in their eyeball or brain bone. With marginally heroic strength, I managed to land the wacky fighter before it could self-destruct … ish.

No rest for the weary though, as even more horror shocked our hero. The sudden squall had toppled the Solbello and crashed it into the upright fishing rods, which as you might imagine, were adorned with hooks of the fishing type … treble hooks, sharply barbed even, the perfect hardware for just such an occasion. So now my brand new $150 shade was being ripped into, with the psychotic flapping creating a veritable cacophony of deafening sound and fury. Battle number three was On.

Getting control of such a wildly flailing thing would be challenge enough, even without deadly hook-points raking violently through the air with spasmodic abandon. How I didn’t lose an ear is a great mystery. Or minor miracle. Or both.

I finally got the raging beast surrounded, gathered and hustled into the truck and out of the murderous wind, where the delicate surgery of total hook excision could be performed …

When the dust finally settled, the beach was much littered with the skeletal remains of countless hapless canopies, all crumpled like yesterday’s news, each now fit for much of nothing. I’m told the county’s punitive fine for leaving the mangled tangle on the beach is $1,000. I get it, just not sure how you dispose of it. For without the ability to fold, it no longer fits into many vehicles. I guess we supposed to strap it up on top and head on home like hillbillies from Beverly … giddy up!

So here’s to eternal vigilance, crisis management and proper anchoring. And wishing the best of luck to all, especially those blindsided by Mother’s tantrums!

~ ~ j ~ ~

The little reed, bending to the force of the wind, soon stood upright again when the storm had passed over. ~~ Aesop