Ah, Rehoboth, and Lewes as well, though their beach strip is way narrower with the dunes. And way too pebbly for bare feet’s comfort. Somewhere in the pines, the president weekends frequently. Some folks are miffed and grumble, “He oughta be out doin’ the world’s work, not layin’ back summering with Jill. Graph!” I’m not bothered — always been crazy for easy-going Delaware; and besides, my dad often rode the Amtrak, chatting with “Joe!”
Back in ‘64, Deauville Beach was my hangout. Deauville is just far north enough to catch a glimpse of the three windblown cylindrical melks some call the Conning Towers. What was that? Concrete sentinel shafts built by the Navy? To monitor possible advances along the Atlantic coastline of German U boats and scows spilling out steely-eyed chunders.
So on sun-drenched mornings with the orb but a winking pinhole in a scorching scrim of faded blue-grey, my summer buddy Jeff and I sat in the rolling tide-wash, looking out at the far breakouts, and screeching “SURF’S UP,” to the horror of the grown ups.
All slathered in Coppertone oil, right to the rim of their Kit Kat eye protectors, they moaned in mock indignation. Our 11-year-old croaks were no more bothersome from the Monster Mash sandcastle standing in ruins from the righteous trampling by rival Jammie Boys, our Big Daddy Roth Kustom Kar Mag, spotted and windowpaned by tidal spray. “Whoo-oo, wawa-ha-ooeoo-waah,” I gargled a Del-tones refraining while Jeff paddled clumsily seaward, his dented foam boogie board clutched forward.
