What I tried not to do on my Summer Vacation

 

 

The last day of the last program of the summer is over. The buses and vans have pulled away, headed for home loaded with exhausted, suntanned, and hopefully better-educated and environmentally responsible passengers. The buckets and nets are rinsed, dried, counted, and stored. The field guides, binoculars, hand lenses, and microscopes are safely stashed away on the shelves and in the cabinets. When we NMEA folks finally reach the end of yet another grueling summer of 24-7 outdoor education programs, where do we go to get away from it all? Down to the beach, of course, because we just can't get enough of that stuff! We shove some t-shirts, shorts, a baseball cap and a big bottle of SPF-30 in the duffel bag, tie the kayak on top of the truck, and off we go to get more wind in our faces, sand in our shoes, insect bites on our legs, and marsh mud under our nails. But this time, for these few precious days left at the tail-end of the summer, we've got no agenda to follow, no students or tour groups demanding our attention. It's just us, and maybe a few friends and family, with a wide-open opportunity to rest, explore, and reflect.

Enjoying a beach vacation strictly as a tourist is something I have to force myself to do. It's just so hard after years in education for me to sit back and let thousands of teachable moments pass me by, when I am literally surrounded by so many seemingly oblivious potential learners. Look at them, slumped nearly comatose in their beach chairs, reading the latest James Patterson novel. They are dying for want of a big healthy dose of ocean literacy! “Hey you, wake up and look at all that suspended sediment floating from north to south; that's longshore transport in action there, buddy! Whoa, lady, don't cut those grass plumes, I know they would look beautiful in that big pottery vase back home in your sunroom, but that plant helps protect the beach, and besides can't you read that big KEEP OFF THE DUNES sign? Give me that balloon, kid; do you know what that thing can do to a dolphin's digestive tract? Wait; don't cry; look over here and see those little scratchy marks around that hole? There's a ghost crab living down in there; isn't that cool? And that big bird, that's a pelican; if you watch it long enough, you might see it dive and catch a fish in its beak! Isn't that amazing?”

Okay, so I haven't actually scolded complete strangers or stolen a child's balloon. But, I have been known to abruptly interject scientific commentary into the casual conversations of people who are in mortal danger of misidentifying a sea creature or totally ignoring a natural event going on right in front of them. Like the time many summers ago when a young couple walked past me on a remote beach trail, carrying a beautiful yellow sea fan, and wondering aloud what kind of seaweed it could be. Much to my husband's embarrassment, I jumped right into their path and fired off an enthusiastic little lecture on the similarities and differences among members of phylum, Cnidaria. They listened politely and nodded for minute, but soon took a few steps back and glanced over at my husband, who immediately recognized their silent but desperate call for help. He shrugged and said, “sorry, but she's really into marine biology.” And, then there was the life-saving tutorial about intertidal currents that I delivered to a small group of German senior citizens who were, prior to my appearance, bobbing dreamily on their backs in the deceptively calm waters of a small bay. One of the women graciously translated by critical information into German for the rest of her group, or at least I hope that she communicated it correctly. I don't think what I said was nearly as amusing as her translation appeared to be, though. They were still bobbing away when I left.

Admit it, haven't you visited a zoo or aquarium on your off-hours, with no obligation to reveal your educator persona, but then you find yourself cringing as you hear a parent blatantly misinforming the children about the animal they are watching? You bite your tongue, but in spite of your efforts at restraint, you just have to blurt it out: “Sir, I don't doubt for a minute that your Uncle Bobby Ray was once seriously stung by some kind of venomous sea creature, but it really couldn't have been a horseshoe crab like that one, because you see, in spite of its dangerous appearance, the spine is actually…” and then it's too late, you're off and running, crushing the very heart of their cherished family legend. Or maybe you're much more subtle, being more the “teach by quiet example” type. I'll bet you've gotten up early and marched yourself right out on the beach armed with a trash bag and a purposeful stride, working around the careless tourists to clear the sand of their litter. Oh yes, I'm right there next to you, we're wearing our “Don't mind us, we're just being good environmental role models” expressions. Off we go down the strand, plucking up stray soda bottles and beer cans, abandoned plastic sand toys, flattened foil juice boxes, yucky cigarette butts, and the papery remains of exploded bottle rockets. (Note that the last item might in indigenous only to some southern Atlantic beaches, where firing off a nightly barrage of smelly, smoky, painfully loud, miniature sticks of dynamite while yelling “Yee-haw!” is a time-honored vacation ritual encouraged by a regional lack of consistent law enforcement where fireworks are concerned).

At any rate, the daily one-woman Beach Sweep has become my personal compromise while I'm on vacation. I keep my mouth shut, my hands occupied, and the beach clean. The other tourists can enjoy their seashore time in peace and blissful scientific ignorance. My husband's embarrassment is now minimized, because he stays knee-deep in the surf with a fishing rod in his hand and his back to the beach and pretends we didn't come there together. This year, I even kept my true identity a secret when, while picking up litter in a more remote area, another visitor stopped me to excitedly point out a sea turtle nest at the bottom of a tall, sea oats-rich dune. She was obviously having so much fun describing the sea turtle's life cycle that I simply stood there and listened with the appropriate expression of wonder and awe on my face. I knew exactly how good she felt.

Vicki Clark has been a seashore visitor and resident her entire life, and a marine educator since 1977. She is an educator with the Virginia Sea Grant Marine Advisory Program at the Virginia Institute of Marine Science at Gloucester Point, Va. She served as president of NMEA from 2001-2002.