Hypothermia at Miami Beach

My childhood trips to the beach were never fully appreciated until I was abnormally sun burned, the police were dispatched for my mother or I tried to take the city bus home. The beach can often be a source of peace and tranquility to normal families. They find the excursion to be a way of bonding and spending time together whereas my family found it to be an easy way to embarrass each other in public.
Miami Beach was 10 miles away from where we lived but for some reason my mother would pack for it as if we would be traveling overseas, never to return again. Suitcases were literally packed to the brim with clothes from every season. Of all the things thrown in though, there was always a logical reason behind it. She always explained herself as if something was wrong with me. “What do you mean why am I bringing a snowcap? Do you know how long it takes to get sand out of your hair, she questioned. Extra pants and long shirts were taken in case one of us got chilly. The temperature would reach 105 during the day and my mother would be damned if one of us were going to catch a cold.
It was easy to hide the unneeded wardrobe in the car but no one at the beach was going to miss the 10 foot wooden canoe strapped to the top of the silver 1984 Cadillac El Dorado we were piled into. Unfortunately she had chosen the canoe when faced with the dilemma that both that and the rope hammock would not fit in the car. It didn’t bother mom that there was not a single tree on the beach or that no one in their right mind would try to paddle out into the ocean with a canoe that was built before she was born. To her it was something else in the house that could, in some way, be related to a water activity. The tackle box, a compass and my grandfather’s spear gun he used as an eagle scout all fell into this category.
Food was something we never went without when we went to the beach. Yes it was edible but it was not food that complimented a humid day under South Florida’s sun. Things like tuna fish casserole leftovers, mashed potatoes and cans of vegetable soup were crammed to the top of the family cooler. I still shudder when I think about the blue cooler with the missing top, its size so large and comical that it belonged on the set of a children’s television show or outside an army bunker holding meat rations. The blue behemoth had recently been acquired at a garage sale where it sat below a sign that read “Free: if you can fit it”. The food never remained cold and I would often find myself staring at the other families on the beach eating their hotdogs with the toppings spilling over onto their hands while the fathers flipped another sizzling burger over on the grill. I would have cried in envy had the meatloaf I was gnawing on not sucked all the moisture from my mouth.
All the annoyances of the day would peter out for a moment when our car would finally pull up to that beautiful turquoise wonderland the beach had presented. My legs would start to sprint before my body was even out of the car as I raced in glee to the crisp refreshing water staring at me. Everything moved in slow motion as I galloped and breathed in all the amazing sights ahead. Birds flew overhead in perfect harmony, the clouds opened up to shine the sky down on me as two kids looked up from their sandcastle to nod at me, sharing a moment like, “Yeah we know what you mean.” The crest of the cool wave tumbled over and swam to my aching toes as I stepped onto the soft wet sand and positioned my body to dive in. “Gregory!!! Wait!!!,” pierced into the tranquil sky and rang into my ears. It was my mother. “I need to put on your suntan lotion,” she screamed in gasps as she dropped the cooler to the sand and ran towards me, arms flailing. The moment of peace had come and gone as quickly as the wave I was about to jump into had. I lowered my head in defeat as I walked quickly towards her to avoid any further loud screaming.
Every summer I came to visit, my mother would take it upon herself to make sure that I got the darkest tan possible. Every summer she would dismiss my excuse that ‘It was impossible for me to get a tan and the efforts only resulted in horrible sunburns,” as something a girl would say. It was as if she dreamt of me going back to my friends in Virginia with a tan so incredible that it could only exemplify how great of a mother I had. As I appeared before her I could see that she was squinting hard at a black plastic bottle she was holding at an arm’s length away from her face. It was called “Tan Amplifier” and it was now being poured by the handful over my entire body. It was greasy as it beaded down my face and was massaged into my chest. I would later find out that the “Amplifier” in its name signified its amazing power to tan when there was barely any sun available. There was not a cloud in the sky that August day as I darted back across the scorching sand and into the water.
By the end of the day I think everyone on the beach knew of our presence. Even if I had tried it would have been impossible to have gotten lost. All I would need to do is look for the woman wearing the snowcap or watch for where the tide was inching upon a weathered canoe. I would not start to feel the effects of burn on my body until I was crammed next to the cooler in the back of the car and the salt in my fishnet bathing suit had begun to dry and itch. The drive home in the interstate traffic would not be a pleasant one at all. I screamed in agony as my mother sat in the front and reread the bottle of suntan lotion. “I’ll be damned,” she said as she realized what had happened. “Well, just think of how great of a tan that’s gonna turn into,” she said as I pulled out a wool scarf from the suitcase to rest my head on.