Reading: Frank McCourt, 'Tis

Listening: Waves

Viewing: My own sandcastle

Moving: Swimming, playing, and running on the beach with RDC2

Learning: that nail polish doesn't last in the sand. Quelle surprise.

2 January 2000: I'll See You on the Beach

DMB, JJT, A-----, RDC2, RDC, and I went to the beach. I asked RDC2 if he wanted to make a sandcastle and he said he didn't know how. He's five. What has he been doing all his life? We went to work. A----- joined us for a bit and made much better arches than my tunnels. My dream sandcastle is one perfectly positioned for a flowing tide's ninth wave to shoot along a canal, build up in a moat, and be forced into a low tunnel and out the top like a volcano.

That didn't happen this day. I mostly dug a trench and made a large mound of sand.

I did get RDC2 into the water for a bit. He clung to my neck like a spider monkey. The surf and current were pretty strong, I guess. He wanted to go in, but to do that he needed nearly to join his flesh with mine for protection, and after he did that he got me so sandy that I had to dunk him good and proper to get not only him but now me clean. Allegedly he swims in the neighborhood pool like a fish and in the ocean on calmer days.

The current and wind brought not only each other but a passel of man-o-war. RDC2 learned quickly not to step on them barefoot; he's a cautious tyke. He also learned that once dry they can be whacked with a sand shovel to make a satisfying pop. (This is probably dangerous.)

Speaking of dangerous beaches. Upstairs as I put on my bathing suit I heard Tom Hanks call out "I'll see you on the beach!" and I asked if "Saving Private Ryan" was on. It was. I saw this movie once before, in the cinema last May, and its first 20 minutes comprise the most effectively filmed battle scene I have ever witnessed. What startled me is how much differently we experienced the movie on HBO than in a cinema. In a cinema, no one speaks (you hope); but in a house, particularly this one, people do. That robs the movie of power. So does the smaller screen. So does the fact that we were half watching it while getting ready to go to a beach for a day of pleasure and leisure. It's a movie, but as close to a keyhole to 1944 as anyone is ever likely to experience again, and our casual watching and commenting made me wonder if anyone ever does appreciate the sacrifice people made to ensure that we could ever have the leisure to ignore their effort.

I doubt people in less secure nations kick back and prattle about how war is not the answer and pacifism makes right. Isn't it the U.S.'s strength that facilitates the leisure to philosophize and bullshit about the futility of previous shows of resourcefulness and bravery? Anyway, I'm one of those who believes that violence solves nothing, and the fact I can think that derives from victory at war. A paradox. I want to live in Switzerland.

When RDC2 saw what fun I was having in the waves, he decided he wanted to try it. He wanted me to come and get him. I told him no, he had to come to me. We went back and forth like that, like Mork and Mindy on the field goal at Fulsome (or whatever it's called) Field, before I went and got him.

There are photographs of me and him on the beach that feature closer-up photograhs of my hips, excuse me, my saddlebags, than have recently intruded on my conscience. I am shedding that weight, damn it.

RDC2 wanted to be my conjoined twin.