To the beaches!

I’ve seen the Atlantic. I’ve seen the Pacific. I’ve been to lakes all over the country, and a river runs through my home town.

However, as far as beaches go, Lake Michigan beaches are the best. They’re beautiful, unpretentious and sunny.

What tops the experience off perfectly, though, are the people. Huge amounts of diverse people.

There’s the old man with the metal detector looking for his fortune as he maneuvers around towels and outstretched legs. Yes sir, the shores of Michigan must hide the fortunes of lost pirate ships or maybe a mafia don or two.

Next, there are the 17-year-old girls with belly button rings aggressively tanning while listening to Pitbull’s latest track.

Sitting behind them is the white whale. He’s the giant man whose skin hasn’t seen the light of day in nine months. Today he has thrown caution to the wind, exposing to the blazing sun what had been hidden in cave-like darkness.

Use caution because snow blindness pales in comparison to whale-exposure.

On the ride home he will discover himself to be a pink, pained furnace whose sunburns are the souvenirs from his lapse in good judgment.

Closer to the water is the small group of hopeful, but ultimately unsuccessful beach-readers. These are the self-deluding souls who believe they will actually read a book on the beach.

Not only is the glare off the white pages too strong to allow for reading, but there is just too much to look at, too much sand in the pages and too much water damage from occasional dips in the blue-green water.

The books will lay unread on beach towels. The only purpose for them now (depending on their quality) is to add an aura of sophistication to their owners’ beach territory.

Hordes of children run all over the sand, digging, yelling, chasing seagulls and eating $5 hot dogs. Their parents yell at them unsuccessfully from the beach to “get out of the water!” or “stop throwing sand on those people,” maybe even shouting “put the damn bird down!”

Then there’s me: the sunburned, unsuccessful book-reader, sand-covered, with burnt feet because I forgot sandals.

I don’t go to the beach at Lake Michigan looking for lost pirate treasure or a tan, not even to show off my (sophisticated) reading. I go to be with my friends, to watch the people and to soak up the fading days of my youth.

The ride home from the beach is usually more quiet than the ride up. People are tired and ready for air conditioning.

The loud excitement and anticipation of the drive to the beach is replaced by calm contentment.

The old man with the metal detector, the high school divas, the poor beached whale, failed readers and kids with their parents all get back in their cars. Yet the feeling of happiness and exhaustion of surviving a day at the beach in the Midwest remains.

­— Mthomas5@indiana.edu