A Day At The Beach


Brighton Beach ain't the Carribean, but it's close enough. At least for this New Yorker stranded in the Northern Hemisphere and too far away from the turquoise waters of Isla Mujeres.
There was a leathery specter on the patch of blanket a few staked claims over, who was way beyond skin cancer concerns. The police rifled through the lay-abouts and plucked the recreational pot users from the masses but ignored the surreptitiously stored open containers and the paper bag-less bottles of cold Corona.
Sunburns blossomed with abandon, cooled by the occasional dip in the murky waters of the Atlantic. The orange life guard liberally perused his whistle but refrained from cutting through the waves with the help of his dorky and equally orange float.
Fun was had.
Pizza was eaten.
The beach promised, beckoned and delivered.
And the Q train, predictably, was full enough for me to enjoy my ride standing up all the way to Union Square.

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