Out for a swim

After several days spent mostly hiding in our air-conditioned rental, we decided we were morally obliged to venture out for a swim. We were at the beach, after all.

We waited until late in the day, around six 'o'clock, when the sun was low and we wouldn't feel so much like that chicken in Paolo's picture of the spit roast.

We walked up the road to the nearest public beach. All along the shore here are two kinds of beaches: public ones, which are just a stretch of sandy shoreline, and "lidos," where you pay to rent a chair, an umbrella, a lounger, or all of the above and get to enjoy additional amenities, such as a bar and a lifeguard.

A lido at the end of the day

The cost for a chair and umbrella seems to range from 4 euros to 20. Right now the private beaches are pretty empty, but presumably they'll fill up in August, when everyone in Italy is on vacation. We figured a public beach was good enough, especially since the waves are barely ripples.

Even on a windy day the waves are tiny

Just the prospect of having to walk a quarter mile to the beach and then sit on the sand made me feel sorry for myself. Not for the first time, I realized how my parents' house on the Jersey Shore, now just a memory, has spoiled me for life when it comes to beaches.

The sand on Long Beach Island is soft and clean (except for that one year when all the syringes washed in). The waves are big enough for body-surfing but not so big as to be scary, the water clear and refreshing, and there are lifeguards on duty to look out for sharks and undertow. Best of all, our family's oceanfront house was just a few steps from the water. So if you wanted to swim, or suntan, or visit with some friends who were already down by the water, you strolled out to the beach. And when you'd had enough sun or swimming or conversation, you went back inside. It was like having a swimming pool that happened to be the Atlantic Ocean.

Now we had to worry about what to bring and leave on the beach while we were in the water (answer: nothing but the house key and a towel). I also wondered how our immense American bathing suits would be regarded by the locals, who regardless of age and physique generally wear the smallest bikinis they can find.

The latter turned out to be a non-problem, since by the time we got to the beach everyone else had apparently gone off to have an aperitif. We set down our things and headed into the water.

Unlike the Atlantic, it was warm--over 80 degrees, I would guess. I started wading out, trying to avoid the thick clumps of seaweed growing here and there. I walked and walked and walked, but the water didn't seem to be getting any deeper. Seventy feet from shore and it was still at knee level.

I looked over my shoulder to check Danny's progress and saw him on the shore, waving urgently. Had he seen a shark? I turned and waded back.

Evidently some of the construction rubble we'd spotted further down the beach was also in the water. A few feet from shore Danny had stumbled on a concrete block hidden by seaweed and cut open his knee.

We hurried back home, Danny's leg bleeding slowly but steadily. Luckily it wasn't a deep cut, and we had bandages and ointment on hand. He's fine and the cut is healing nicely.

But we haven't been back in the water since. I keep thinking we ought to, but the prospect just isn't very appealing.