All that business about hands yesterday reminded me of a recent visit to Reject Beach. I'd ventured there on my bike, as I often do, and parked my bike along the fence, as I often do ... and did way-back-when in teen days when we'd all head to Reject's when we weren't working, as it wasn't far, and it was free, and that's where we'd be sure to run into friends.
Also, there's no parking — just that funny little traffic circle — so there's no choice but to get there by foot-power of one kind or another.
Reject's is the same beach as Bailey's Beach, of course (that being the most exclusive beach club in town, more properly known as the Spouting Rock Beach Association, and marked by a suitably subtle sign saying "SRBA"). But those of us on the "reject" side are reminded of our station by a blue & white line that stretches across the sand, through the softly-breaking surf, out into the waves, as if one could divide the ocean, not just access to the ocean ...
I'm not complaining!! Really, I'm not. I love Reject's (and Bailey's, based upon the one or two occasions I've been there) — though I wonder, and I asked this of a beautiful friend in a tiny bikini whom I encountered after locking my bike to the fence the other day: How exactly does the name "Reject Beach" get passed down from generation to generation of perfectly-happy beach-goers without a sign?? I mean, everyone knows that's Reject's, right there at the end of the Cliff Walk — "where the riff-raff hang out," said my beautiful friend with a laugh — but who started it?? The name, I mean?? Who was the original reject?? And how does it continue?? It's rather like jump-rope rhymes and those hand-slapping/clapping games we used to play at recess. They're not written down (are they??). They're just some sort of oral history/tradition that no doubt changes little-by-little along the way.
Except Reject Beach doesn't change.
Only the beach-goers change ...
Anyway, as I was lying there drying off after a swim on that hot hot day, a woman (older than I) in a bikini (tinier than mine) on a nearby towel was deep in some sort of thought process. She had collected feathers into a bouquet (why not??) and attached them to a headband or headphone-looking thing, and she was contemplating it. Her creation. Animatedly. Maybe even talking to it — consulting it?? That struck me as fine, maybe even productive: the collecting/recyling aspect, as opposed to just lying there. But she was so absorbed (frustrated??) that it became worrisome after a time ...
