You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Beach Time.
That’s the time it takes to get things done at the beach compared to how long it would take to get it done elsewhere.
Beach Time is one part manana and one part whenever.
If two plus two is always four. Sometimes at the beach it’s three-and-a-half. Sometimes its 4-and-a-half. Sometimes it just doesn’t matter.
Beach time is an attitude. It’s the feeling you get when the top comes off a cold bottle of Corona.
Beach Time is a wind chime mixing with surf in the distance.
Beach Time is measured in how long it takes to stop and admire a sunset.
Beach time is a leisurely walk down the boardwalk.
Beach Time is sniffing the ocean breeze and wishing you didn’t live where you do.
Beach Time is real time, but slower. It’s an extra step, a longer look, a 3rd helping of nachos.
Beach Time is a panoramic view where your soul surfs and your dreams manifest.
Beach time is leisurely, it’s insouciant, it’s invisible laughter that tickles your heart.
Don’t come to the beach and expect it fast. Fast is for someplace else where you can’t sample a trade wind or sniff a palm tree.
Beach Time is a surfer girl with wet hair and big blue eyes.
Beach Time is a black dog with a red bandana sticking his head out of the back of a CJ 7.
Beach Time is a surfer dude with a wet suit rolled down so you can see his chest. He thinks he’s cool and what you think depends on whether you even have the time to care.
Beach time is good time.
Beach time is sunshine poking through the fog giving you hope that you can take your hoodie off.
When you conduct business in beach time, you have to take a deep breath and realize this AIN’T NEW YORK TIME.
Nobody is gonna move extraordianarily fast to complete your transaction in Beach Time.
Beach Time means, “You know you are lucky we are waiting on you. You know that, right?”
So I’m in a little Beach Time Cantina and it reeks of beach time. The sun is showering the deck with a healthy dose of you might want to raise that umbrella, but then again, why bother.
The sign board out front is written in bright pink chalk. It screams Beach Time saying Surf’s Up. Try a Guacamole ommeltee. The pink chalk is half erased by the wind and a layer of we’ll redraw that later.
Tick Tock. Tick Tock.
“Next,” the counter lady yells.
The group in front of me approaches the register to order.
I look back at the boulevard of dreams and timeless insouciance.
People are riding bikes. People are running the boardwalk. People are walking dogs.
The sun is a ball of blistering orange in a light blue sky without a cloud in sight.
Beach Time is in full bloom. All Beach and what time doesn’t matter.
Somewhere an avocado is about to die and the chef will yawn.
I step to the counter.
The woman is tan, her face leathery, her hair combed with Dr. Zogg’s Sex Wax.
“One avocado ommelette. You want coffee with that too, hon?”
I look around her establishment and smile.
The back wall is lined with coffee urns.
My mouth waters.
“Yeah. Coffee sounds great.”
She rings up my order and smiles.
“next.”
I look at her as the other customer tries to take my spot.
“Wait a second. Do you give me a receipt or a number or how do you know where I’m seated.”
“We’ll find you,” she smiles.
Beach Time.
Who needs a number when a server can simply walk around the restaurant looking for the owner of a 3 egg omellete.
I walk to the coffee wall. I notice the orange paint is worn by sun, sea and surf.
I look at the 12 urns of coffee before me. Africa and South America and Costa Rican blends.
I put my coffee mug under the first cannister of African Dark. I push the lever. The spout belches like a hose full of air.
I put my cup under the next cannister, a medley from Costa Rica.
I hit the lever and a sputtering sound is emitted. A gulp of coffee explodes into the cup and then more air.
I look around at the wait staff.
Is anyone else seeing this? More importantly, does anyone else care?
Beach Time.
I am now suspect of the third cannister. It claims to be a South American blend.
If it said Kansas, USA, I think I would be more encouraged.
I push the lever. It won’t even engage. It is empty as Jessica Simpson’s thoughts.
I look back at the wait staff.
The woman at the register smiles like this is part of the ambiance.
“That’s OK. We’ll brew some more, hon”
Beach Time.
I go and sit with my friends at a table.
No one has a care in the world. It’s sunny and the ocean breeze is refreshing.
A beach cruiser driven by a shirtless vagrant zips by.
In New York City, he is a homeless man without a shirt. He probably stole the bike. But here at the beach, he is lucky, a health enthusiast, looked at by others who wish they too had no shirt and a boardwalk to inspect.
“Where’s your coffee?” a friend asks.
I smile.
Somewhere in Africa or South America, I laugh to myself.
Beach Time.
You’ll get a fresh pot of coffee when we’re damn good and ready to make it.
Life’s Crazy™