“Right By the Beach…Boy-ee!”

In a surprise move, I returned to Virginia Beach earlier than expected. I departed before Memorial Day, expecting to be gone from Old Dominion for at least a year. With plans to meet up with my parents and brother at my friends’ wedding, it seemed that any reunion at the beach would be unlikely. But as plans develop and the world turns, a clear path emerged. Instead of making a short family event after the wedding, I would head down for a full week at home, making it my last domestic stop before my flight back to India.

This news came with a sense of joy. My time in New Jersey continued to be brilliant from start to finish, but I started to feel overwhelmed there, both in positive and negative ways. My friends in Jersey and New York surrounded and supported me with love and care, welcoming me back and sending me off in style. Still, I needed some space to clear my head before the travels and Va Beach provided the perfect tonic for my tri-state restlessness.

Leaving Jersey brought a pang, but with clear skies and the glorious waterfront ahead of me, I landed with exhilaration. The week unfolded perfectly, as if scripted for me and my family. A few stories:

Crab Feast: When my Grandparents presented me with the idea of taking me out for a going away meal, I immediately declined saying, “I will be eating out for the next 10 months of my life, I am very happy to be eating in this week!” Yet my decision came back to haunt me when I found myself in a later conversation about crab. Yes, blue crab. I love crab. Hook me up with a crab feast and I’m on board. Let’s you and me eat crab all day until our lips burn with bay seasoning and our fingers will smell of shellfish for a week. Seriously, right now, let’s go.

I immediately went back to my grandparents, tail between legs. “Um, Papa, I changed my mind about going out to eat. Do you think we can go out and pick crab for a while?” Without hesitation we were on our way. A good family friend with the best connections in the beach came over for dinner and we pried him for the intel we needed. He concocted a plan with his local seafood guy and placed the strategy in our hands.

The next day we made our way out for a few morning errands before arriving at the Virginia Beach Seafood Market on Mediterranean and 21st. A dive epitomized. We got to the market half of the storefront and looked at the under-appetizing and under-stocked display. No service arrived, so we walked to the restaurant. Inside the service improved. A waitress called her crab guy and he walked out with a live #1 Jimmy. He sparkled. I mean the crab -- good-sized and looking tasty.

We ordered a dozen hard shells and a round of suds. The waitress covered our table in paper and we laughed at the décor. A ten-pointer, a corner hammock filled with stuffed animals, a map of the Chesapeake and two massive speakers that could have blown the paint off the otherwise bare walls of the tiny joint. Perfect.

The beautiful dozen came out steaming fresh. We gaped and then took up our tools to work the feast. Hammering and picking, knifing and cracking we handled the spread like old-timers, washing each lump of meat down with vigor. The conversation ebbed and flowed, Papa told stories and Grandma smiled. I ate at that lovely rate that a crab feast affords, slow and steady, never over full and never rushed. It reminded me of my mother’s favorite Italian proverb, “one never ages at the dinner table.” Given the look on my grandparents’ faces, perhaps one can even grow younger.

Making Kubb: If you read my blog in Sweden, you will be familiarized with Kubb, a game I picked up in Gotland. As a self-ascribed game-meister, furious with competition over the must mundane matters (a trait I treasure from my Swedish great-grandfather) I took to the Viking lawn game like a fish to water. Game of my ancestors that involves throwing wood around the backyard? Sold!

When I picked up the kubbs for the first time, I knew that it would become part of my life, I just didn’t know how. Well, the answer came sooner than expected. Thinking of what to do with the fam while the grands were in town, Kubb came to mind. Three generations of men in one house at the same time, definitely a good time to take a trip to the lumberyard, cut some wood and make a game of Kubb. With Dad and Papa on board, I had to sell them on the importance of making our own set. They suggested we buy wood and have it cut on the premises, but I told them that my Swedish ancestors (many of whom were woodsmen) would roll over in their grave if they knew their descendants had asked someone else to cut their wood for them. It simply was not an option, no matter how long or laborious the process. We would cut our own wood and make our own set.

After some initial research on the web (a remarkably helpful invention) I got the specs for the set, we took a trip to pick up the wood and returned with a fencepost, 8 foot of dowel and 8 foot of landscape timber. We marked off the measurements and Dad busted out the old Black&Decker circular saw and lopped off the pieces as I steadied the wood and Papa sanded the edges. Within an hour we had a genuine Kubb set before us. Satisfied with our work and our morning, we ate a hearty lunch and moved out to test out our set on the glorious afternoon.

Success on all fronts. Everyone enjoyed the game and agreed that we built a great set (easy enough to declare considering everyone else had not ever seen a set; but hey, can’t something be great in and of itself without comparison?). The whole event morphed beyond my own vision as the other began talking about buying some paint and decorating the set. The next day we spent “happy time” applying Swedish blues and yellows to some of the pieces. It became a family affair. I smiled with the wonderful feeling of connection with my presents and my ancients.

Eating: Many of you will know, my Mom can cook. If not, invite yourself over and she will gladly cook for you (plus, I’m sure she would like the company). It’s a hobby, it’s a gift, mostly its just flipping great. Dad brings in the dynamic of the grill and the house becomes home-cooked heaven near every night I visit. My mom sent me an email a week before I arrived and asked me to list my top choices for meals during my stay (blatantly the best email of my entire life). I obliged and ate like a king for a week. My choices in order:

1. Spaghetti and Meatballs; Fresh Italian Salad; Garlic Bread; Red Wine
2. Grilled Tuna and Grilled Vegetables over Fresh Greens; Mom’s homemade Oil and Vinegar Dressing
3. Cedar Plank Grilled Salmon; Asparagus; Cous Cous
4. Hamburgers; Fresh Tomato Salad; Grilled Corn
5. Lemon Squares
6. Leftovers from all of the above meals
   

Sitting on the Beach with Dad: About 8 years go my brother and I noticed my Dad chill out. Leaving New Jersey and getting to the beach seemed to vibe with his soul. The hyper activity and land-lockedness of central Jersey gave way to a short bike ride to the Atlantic. He started to get that look in his eyes I used to see when he would blow leaves around the yard in October. Tuned in and tuned out. Growing up near the Pacific, it became more and more clear that he belonged near the big water; His spirit balancing with the tides.

Going to the beach with my Dad now is one of my favorite activities in the world. For two guys who like to talk to each other, we talk little. We face different ways (me to the sun, him to the sea). We read. I talk on the phone. He does a crossword. We picked up a football and recaptured some glory running patterns on the sand. It’s hard to express the kind of joy I felt being a grown man and peacefully reveling in the fact that I was finally aware that having a catch meant something special to each of us.

The sun closes out. I go for a swim and get sandy feet. We laugh at the spectacle of a 6-year old boy chasing around his cousins with a dead crab he found on the shore. We watch the Mom try to corral the 5 children in her stead and commenting on her demonstration of the kind of resolve, attention and love that only mother’s seem to possess.

We pack up and leave the beach together. Dad to an elders’ meeting at Church. Me to coffee with a friend.

The Boardwalk: Bicycling makes me feel like a kid again. The speed, the freedom, the potential danger, the silly tricks, the pace and the wind. We’ve got two beach-cruisers at home, one black and one pink. I’m not afraid to say that when Andrew’s around, I’ve definitely worked out the pink one in the past, rocking the low-rider with the necessary attitude to make that work for me. When I’m solo, I get the black one, my Dad’s trusty steed.

My friend Jeff dropped me a nice playlist as my going away present to India and I’ve loaded it onto the old iPod. I’ve made a habit of taking a cruise from 59th street down to 1st, hugging the boardwalk and taking in the sights of summer. I like the music, the ride, the weather and the vibe, so I continuously wear a shit-eating grin the whole time and I try to make eye-contact with as many people as possible in hopes of spreading whatever feels so good inside of me to as many others as possible. This has proven to be quite a rewarding endeavor, often resulting in reciprocal happiness and only a couple of times being returned with the kind of look that makes me feel awkward and happy to be on a speedy bike.

Some of the best sights on the board walk.

1. 5-seater group bikes whose riders constantly waver on the line of complete euphoria and complete disaster.
2. The late-August looks on the boys and girls who have been working the same hot dog or bike rental stand since May.
3. Parents trying to wash the sand off their children at the outdoor showers
4. The happy hour crew starting up by 3pm
5. The faces of each family member on a classic American family vacation
6. The teenage boys trying to act cool and impress the teenage girls. The teenage girls trying to act aloof and impress the teenage boys
   

Oh boardwalk and your thousand tiny dramas. Virginia Beach and your million little beauties.