Beach

June 30 2015

It's a small beach.

Not the hot decadence

you'd expect from the word.

Not tropical Maui, Rio's teasing flesh,

but the land of cold water, glacial rock

stunted trees.

A narrow opening

of coarse sand, ragged weeds.

A northern lake,

clear, where it laps the shore,

black

past the drop-off.

The public put-in, just off the road,

where men-will-be-boys

unload tricked-out boats,

reversing-in

their high-sprung pick-ups,

then gunning-out, spewing ruts.

Or a bug-splatted car

hauling a battered skiff

on a rigid trailer-hitch.

Zig-zagging back, until it digs-in

jack-knifed.

3 tough-looking girls

are sunning themselves,

waving cigarettes

in that tipsy way,

clutching beers in sweating cans.

Too fat for bikinis

too pale to be outdoors.

But this is a holiday,

and through the open hatch

the radio's tinny sound

declares it festive,

there for all to hear.

I paddle past

wondering just how long they'll last

when the wind dies down.

Still June

and swarms of blackflies lie in wait,

ravenous

in the cool dark underbrush.

On the eve of the July 1 holiday -- which this year falls rather inconveniently on a Wednesday -- the put-in was busier than usual for the middle of the week. Dogs, canoeists, fishermen. Young couples, bow and stern. And these 3 young women (whom I, at the distinct risk of political incorrectness, incautiously called girls): a little blousy, pale, boisterous. (Not to mention that I've taken my usual poetic license. It's a conservation area, so motorized craft are prohibited: there are no trophy boats. The most powerful thing you'll see is an electric trolling motor! Or that I neglected to include the earnest outdoorsmen of whom I approve, roof-topping canoes on their vintage Subarus.)

I call it a beach, and it is one. But whatever bacchanalian image the word "beach" evokes, this isn't it! Northern beaches can be just as hot and beautiful as winter getaways; but still, you aren't going to see white sand, palm trees, a wide manicured strand. Nor, apparently, the bathing beauties of travel posters.

So everything in the poem plays off beach, confounding expectations with its rather unpleasant (not to mention unapologetically judgemental!) scene. I was especially pleased getting glacial to follow hard on beach. And there is a recurring sense of something ominous lurking: the stunted trees; the black water, with its suggestion of unplumbed depths; the dangerous men along with the ramshackle car; the unaccompanied girls, trying too hard to have fun. And finally, the blackflies – the coupe de grace – buzzing in the underbrush.