Last night, as I was about to fall asleep, I remembered vividly, clearly like a photograph, a place I lived with my father. For a short period of time, maybe a year or so, my father lived very close to the beach in south Florida. We lived in a bungalow, which sounds better than an efficiency, and since it was on the beach, I think it qualifies as the former. Had it been anywhere else, I suppose it should have been called an efficiency.
We informally called it Dog Beach. At Dog Beach were several other bungalow dwellers, among them were Emmit, Major Tom, Dash Riprock, and my father went by Purple. These were names of men, all living a bachelor life, a group of friends with little to no responsibility. I was old enough to go surfing by myself, wander aimlessly, and explore. I needed little care, and that was perfect for both of us.
I loved that place. Behind our bungalow was a maze of dirt roads lined by wild palm, littered with coconuts, and led to my very own private Dog Beach. It was coined Dog Beach for both kinds of bitches. Dog Beach existed in a county pocket, so the local city police had no jurisdiction, only the county sheriff, and his deputies never came through to patrol. That made it a perfect place for dog lovers, and bachelors looking for dog lovers. Well, that and the ability to completely disregard normal partying etiquette.
The bachelors of Dog Beach would build fires on the beach, which was not permitted within the city, by digging a hole a few feet down, starting the fire, then slowly throughout the night the heat would loose the side walls of sand, and by morning the fire would have buried itself. After surfing into sunset, I would walk up the beach and enjoy large pots of clams, cooked over and over, throughout the night. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that many clams since. They would drink and smoke and talk and tell jokes I was barely able to understand.
Most of the houses and bungalows at Dog Beach had those slat windowed front doors, you know, like the one Scareface cut through with a chainsaw. All the windows in all the houses were always open, except during the most violent storms. Sometimes we’d all get a little wet in a heavy downpour. I remember the smell of living there more than anything else. That smell of rain, salt, humidity, heat, sand, coconut palms, and wild sage.
There was a hippie couple that lived at the corner where the long dirt road met the beach. Their door was always open, and I could hear classic rock and smell incense from inside as I walked by surfboard in hand. One day I stopped by and said hi, in the middle of Hotel California. Actually, it was in the middle of the double guitar solo during Hotel California. They were pleasant, we talked about classic rock and waves and the local radio station, and the latest Dog Beach news – of which there was never a shortage.
….more later…
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