From the Crow’s Nest
by CLINT YOUNTS
As most readers who regularly check out my distorted views from my Crow’s Nest, you might recall a recent column about a recent vacation that Maw and I partook upon to the sandy beaches of South Padre Island. I might’ve painted an enticing picture of two sun-and beer-soaked tourists sitting on a serene beach, watching sea birds and an occasional Northern Humpback passing in front of our sand-covered toes, and if this portrait lures you to the island, please pack your Speedo and Bull Frog sun block and head on down to paradise. But, as a pseudo-newspaper reporter, I feel it is also my duty to inform you of things that you might find uncomforting as you travel to the beach.
Most condos on the beach, any beach, are pretty nice. Pert-near all of ’em have a patio that looks out over the beach, providing you a perfect perch to sit and watch the sunrise while sipping hot coffee. Oh, if you think you’ll sleep through the sunrise, that ain’t likely, not with that bright sun blaring through the glass doors and the squawk of the horde of seagulls being fed off the balcony just above yours. And if you are holding a steaming cup of Folgers, keep it away from the edge of the balcony where an unmannered gull may drop some unwanted creamer into your black coffee.
I love sitting out on the balcony, watching the sunrise and ships starting out on their long journeys, but the porch also serves as a good place to dry out your wet towels and swimwear. Every night, we would hang our new burlap swimsuits (Maw is such a fine seamstress) over a patio chair to dry so the next morning I could put on warm, dry drawers instead of ice-cold, damp trunks that transform me from a baritone to a soprano. Oh, one helpful tip from me if your wife also makes swim trunks out of burlap feed sacks: wash them thoroughly before wearing them to the beach or by midafternoon, you’ll be smelling like corn tortillas.
One problem I face, and this may not affect you guys of less stature, are the condos designed by short architects. Now, I stand well over 6’4”, and most showerheads are placed at eye level to Danny DeVito. Since most bathtubs at the beach are coated with sand and tar, I don’t want to sit under the spray, so I have to distort my elongated, ossified spine like some performer from Cirque du Soleil just to wash the seaweed from my hair. The bathroom sinks are no better. Most are set just above my knees. When I bend over to spit out my Listerine, I often crack the mirror and my back at the same time. And why are mirrors hung so low? If I comb my chest hairs, they are at the perfect height, but my scalp hair often ends up looking like Alfalfa.
(Kids, ask grandpa who Alfalfa was.) Why can’t hotels and condos in America build bathrooms for Americans? I know we get a bunch of Asian tourists with a yen to see America, the beautiful, but do we have to plumb our bathrooms for them?
Maw and I once visited Cozumel back when we were young, and I was a half-inch taller. The beds down there are shorter than a Korean point guard. I needed to sleep diagonally just to have my feet on the bed, but Maw wasn’t about to sleep on the Saltillo tile floor. Luckily my compadre, José Cuervo, had a solution for my wakeful woes. But you’d think with so many gringos vacationing in the Yucatan Peninsula, they’d put in normal-sized beds for our lanky bodies to stretch out on.
These are actually some minor inconveniences I have found at seaside establishments. The beauty and serenity of the beach greatly outweigh these minor irritations. I can tolerate the low sinks and showerheads for a week, but if you see me lounging on the beach, don’t mention my patchy beard and unruly locks. Speaking of irritations, burlap sure is rough on your delicate areas. Better pack some udder balm for those rashes.
Clint Younts likes to do his tanning, shirt on, while he works at a veterinary clinic and while running cattle on his property.
