We live in coastal Rhode Island, a spring, summer and fall paradise. Within five minutes, we can be on the beach, gazing at Block Island and checking out the tourists. A big part of our rugged New England coast is the wind. It varies in intensity, but it is pretty much always somewhat of a factor, and one of the reasons the beach is so refreshing on a hot summer day in the first place. Sea breeze or nor’easter, we’ve got it.
We also have sun, and with all the hysteria about skin cancer, many people are getting religion and having recourse to beach umbrellas. This is a good thing. If they don’t want healthcare, then they should stop drinking soda and getting sunburned. The problem is, half of the population has failed to get certified in proper Umbrella Erection technique.
Maybe it’s the whole erection thing that holds the women back. Whatever it is, whenever you see females with a beach umbrella, prepare to be stunned by their retardation and complete lack of sense, and, prepare to take evasive action when the bumbershoot flies through the air like an angry drone and then cartwheels crazily down the coast leaving a trail of carnage and spilled Doritos.
My favorite thing in the world to do on a hot summer day is go to the beach and get stoned, then settle into my Throne of Judgment with my Royal Consort by my side, and start goofing on the goofball tourists. Aside from bad bathing suit choices, hideous tattoos and bratty teenagers, our favorite thing is the Erection of the Umbrella as performed by a rotating cast of females, young and old.
Typically, they arrive in a group, trudging through the sand with a cooler the size of Rhode Island, babies and toddlers, a cart full of toys, a Dunkin’ Donuts cup in hand, maybe a second, smaller food dispensary, and some beach chairs. Being responsible women, they have also remembered the umbrella. With a big “oomph” of relief, they drop all the stuff, everyone runs to the water, and two of the geniuses are left to set everything up.
What they forget, besides basic physics, is a trowel, or some other robust digging devise that can be employed in the service of Umbrella Erection. Of course, they don’t realize they have forgotten this critically important tool, so they just start scooping sand with their hands. When they fail to reach China because the soft sand only goes down a few inches, and they hit the hard packed layer, much head scratching ensues.
At this juncture, the other female will bossily take over. Typically, she will grab the umbrella away, and start trying to jam it into the cement-like sand with mighty thrusts. After a few minutes, the first female will drop to her knees and start filling in the deep hole around the umbrella shaft, and then carefully mound sand around it, creating a little volcano shape, that will, for sure, hold that umbrella down. Well satisfied with their efforts, the two MENSA candidates will briskly wipe their hands and turn their attention to the next order of business.
Once the Erection is over, my attention is needed elsewhere. I drift off into a book, or maybe I fall asleep and doze, lulled by the waves and the sea gulls until I am rudely snapped back to reality by screams. My eyes fly open, and there, barreling toward us, is a terrifying rainbow striped umbrella, bristling with sharp protuberances. My Royal Consort will often be a first responder, and if he is in the mood and the gals are willin’, he will perform a proper Umbrella Erection.
Relieved that one less rogue umbrella is off the streets, I drift off once again, and hope that there are no more umbrella toting morons in our midst.