It’s different at the beach. Time is different at the beach. The lifestyle is different by the ocean. Perspective is different with sand in-between your toes. Good vibes are free. The Fourth of July is more than just a national holiday; it’s practically a religious event.
For as long as I can remember my family has gone to the beach every summer for the Fourth, Bethany Beach, Delaware to be exact. The festivities kick off long before that great day in July. It’s a week-long (or sometimes longer) celebration, full of parades, concerts, house decorating contests and it all culminates to the fireworks on the Fourth.
Each year, we would pack up the car, and drive to my grandparents’ beach house. We’d make a vacation out of it, spending all day at the beach, coming home to shower, while my grandpa grilled burgers and hot dogs on the deck. Scarfing down our meals as fast as possible, daylight faded outside. Then, all of us would pile into one car and fight the traffic up to the boardwalk. Damn tourists, we’d mutter, acting like we’re locals who live there all year round. We practically were, coming to this great beach multiple times a year, and me, living in Bethany last summer.
A less than five-minute drive would take upwards of a half-hour because everyone had one common goal in mind: to plop down on at least a few inches of sand and watch those fireworks celebrating our nation’s birth.
Once you finally found a spot to park your car and a spot to park your tush in the sand, that “commute” to the fireworks is forgotten. The anticipation for the show that’s about to begin right before your eyes takes over.
Something else that takes over, at least during the day? The heat. One year a while back specifically sticks out in my mind. My brother and I decided we wanted to deck out our bikes in Independence Day embellishments and ride in the parade.
Well, the decorating is the part of this story that went smoothly (which is a big surprise considering my artistic ability). It was the parade part that didn’t go as well. As we pedaled our way through downtown Bethany, Jack and I were losing steam. The heat was closing in. Red, white and blue streamers began to fall from our handlebars. It became too much to bear. Finally, I think one of us started crying or something, and our parents made the brilliant executive decision to detour our little part of the parade route to the ice cream shop coming up on our right. To this day, I commend them for their choice.
As you may have guessed, we have not participated in the parade since. We attend each year, riding our bikes to the parade, parking them, and then sit along the route to watch those brave souls pedal past. It’s still one of my favorite things to do each year.
Growing up, I didn’t know everyone didn’t watch the fireworks sitting on a beach towel in the sand. I didn’t know that everyone didn’t hear the ocean in-between the pops of the fireworks and the cheers of the crowd. All I knew was this was the one and only way to celebrate the Fourth of July; it’s the only way I know how at least. And I wouldn’t want to do it any other way.
