The Old Man And The Beach

The Old Man and the Beach (with apologies to Ernest Hemingway)

Chapter One

My wife died suddenly one February evening. She had been in good health-well, except for the usual aches and pains of impending old age. No cancer, no heart problems, no high blood pressure or diabetes, none of the usual indicators of imminent mortality-at least not that we knew of. And she was only sixty-six years old-well below her statistically predicted likely lifespan of eighty-seven. I was sixty-seven at the time, in generally good health, though recently diagnosed with type II diabetes and moderately high blood pressure...but both seemed controlled by medication and I felt well and functional, though we both expected Veronica would outlive me and we needed to anticipate that. We talked quite frankly about such things. That was just the type of people we were.

So the evening in question we were both sitting in the parlor as we called it, Veronica on the sofa crocheting a blanket or shawl or something for one of our grandchildren and I nearby in my recliner perusing a travel guide for southeastern South America (Argentina, Uruguay and Paraguay). It was a quiet, relaxed time; I had just been anointed Professor Emeritus and retired from my position as a chemistry teacher at the nearby state university-though they had asked me to stay on part-time and teach a general education chem course on a semester-by-semester fee for service basis. And Veronica had retired from her public school teaching position (high school social studies and history) the previous summer. So we were both looking forward to traveling, visiting our adult children and their children scattered across North America...and taking an extended tour of South America, a land that had for some reason long intrigued both of us, and we were studying Latin American Spanish (me) and Brazilian Portuguese (she) from audio cassettes.

When Veronica hiccuped or something, then coughed hoarsely as she was crocheting I didn't even look up, but simply called out, "Okay, dear?" When she didn't reply I glanced up to see that she was slumped on the sofa, the crocheting fallen from her hands. Of course I hastily arose and went over to her. She didn't respond to my entreaties, and didn't seem to be breathing and I couldn't feel a pulse. So I immediately called 911 and tried some inept CPR-but when the paramedics and cops arrived they couldn't revive her either and declared her dead on site...and hauled her body away.

Talk about one's universe being blown apart without the slightest warning. I could scarcely wrap my brain about what had just happened... I was sure it was just a freaky wide-awake nightmare and I would wake up any minute and breathe a sigh of relief and pray I would never again have such an experience.

But I didn't. An autopsy revealed that Veronica had died of a ruptured aortic aneurysm-the so-called "silent killer"-that has no advance symptoms nor warning. A specialized procedure can-sometimes-detect an aneurysm before it ruptures...but how many people pay to have a medical test for a condition that has no symptoms...other than sudden death? The coroner tried to console me-I guess-by saying that he had seen many people die all sorts of ways and could he choose how he was going to go- other than simply expiring in his sleep- it would be a ruptured aneurysm. Sudden, painless-at least almost instant unconsciousness, no drawn-out suffering or disability, no fearful anticipation-just abrupt oblivion. Hard on the unprepared survivors...but as easy as possible for the deceased. I tried to be comforted.

So I was now single again, in a big house full of reminders of my late wife, bereft of my anticipated traveling partner, flush with cash from my pension and Social Security and life insurance on Veronica and continuing part-time employment...and very, very lonely...and floundering for how to spend the rest of my life. Some of our adult kids-we have five: three married, one divorced, and one never married-tried to persuade (translation: pressured) me to sell my now too-large house and move in with or at least near them, but I demurred, saying I'd think about it-polite for "No." Maybe sometime I'd yield to their entreaties-at least partway-and move to Buenos Aires or Asunción (Paraguay) or Rio de Janeiro-though I doubt that's what my kids had in mind (wink!)... but not yet. I wasn't ready for such a dramatic change in my life. Too big or not, I was fond of my house and garden; and I had found that I remained a lot fonder of my children and grandchildren when I wasn't too close to them too often. Maybe you can understand.

But I was still alive-biologically at least- with time to kill. Oops-bad metaphor. I could say that I spent the next ten months in blackest grief-but I didn't. However, I was enveloped with a dense gray fog of senseless purposelessness and that worst of emotions: blank boredom. I was essentially existing as a fast food and microwave frozen dinner-ingesting, defecating, oxygen-consuming automaton, who somehow showed up to teach chemistry classes on autopilot. I confess that all that kept me from deleting myself were my garden and my geriatric black tomcat (creatively named Blackie...yeah) and grade reports I had to submit.

But one day I received a phone call from Maxwell, my nonagenarian father-in-law (my parents and mother-in-law having "passed away" some years before, he was my only living relative older than myself). The unreasonably spry and spunky, irascible old man had somehow escaped from a "nursing home" and was now living in an "assisted living facility" where he basically cared for himself, ignoring all prognoses of his impending demise.

His opening: "So, Ed. What're you doing with yourself these days besides sucking oxygen and pooping?" Typical Maxwell.

Me. "Nothin'much. Feeding the cat and weeding the garden. The weeds are winning, though."

He. "Figgered as much. Sounds like me for too long after Rhonda [my mother-in-law] died. But I've decided as long as my bowels insist on functioning I might as well pretend to go on living. Beats being a living corpse. Been making up to a hot widow here in the facility. She's only seventy-three and a live wire and things seem to be progressing well. You should try getting back in the game, Ed. I'm sure Veronica wouldn't mind and even if she did, she can't complain too loudly. Maybe we could even go on double dates... long as you don't pay too much attention to what Samantha...Sam-that's the woman-and I are doing in the back seat!" [cackle.]

Me. "I'll think about it."

Maxwell. "Well, don't think about it too long, or your dick will die before you do and there's nothing more pitiful than an old eunuch...oh, there's a call on my other line...hot diggity...I think it's Sam! Gotta go, Ed; the wild women are waiting! But take my advice-it's a whole lot better than scooping kitty litter! 'Bye!"

click

I stared at the 'phone for a long time before hanging up.

Get back in the game, huh? That was vintage Maxwell but not vintage Edward McKean. ...was it? I'd always been something of a reclusive nerd-nothing extreme, but definitely on the introvert side. Or so I had thought of myself. But...hmm... I WAS getting a bit tired of only a cat for company...

So I did the natural and logical thing. That evening I sat down at my computer with my pants off and a box of facial tissues at hand and started perusing my favorite porn websites- all three of them for which I had stumbled over the urls. An hour later I was gratified to find that my male organ, which I had nicknamed "Marcus" for some forgotten reason, was still functional and I didn't die of an orgasm-induced heart attack-but somehow I doubted that was what Maxwell meant by "get back in the game." But I was clueless how to do that. No way was I going to hang out in singles bars hitting on herpes-riddled plastic women, and I belonged to no social organization populated by eligible (and willing) females looking for eligible old geezers. I'd have to try another tack. How about cruises?-I'd heard they often facilitated social interaction between singles of diverse ages interested in said social interactions.

So next move: I laid in a stock of travel magazines from the tabloid section of the nearest GigaMart, and systematically analyzed them. You laugh. Shame on you- that was a perfectly reasonable nerdish tactic. I make no bones about being a Nerd-and proud of it.

But one evening I came across a feature article in some rag about nudist/"clothing optional" resorts and campgrounds and beaches and was intrigued to find described the Sunbody Beach quite close (a mere 35 miles) to my residence. I had never before seriously contemplated patronizing such a place-my conservative prudish late wife wouldn't have countenanced doing so. She might have been outraged that I was even reading about them. But much as I missed my wife, being widowed (widowered?) does have some benefits-such as being free to visit a nudist beach.

Why not?

Well, lots of reasons but I decided to do a Maxwell and purchased a high quality "sun lamp" and lots of suntan lotion and set about grilling my pale body in the privacy of my home-all over, carefully regulating my exposure so as not to suffer lampburn ;-} and optimize my "tan". But I didn't want to be embarrassed by exhibiting dramatic "tan lines" on the beach, nor suffering incipient skin cancer and pain from sunburn.

Chapter Two

Finally the Big Day came. I gathered together my supplies: a couple of brand-new large terrycloth beach towels, a pop-up half recliner (I didn't just want to sprawl like a fish out of water), brand-new prescription sunglasses (two pair-just in case), sunscreen, and drinks and snacks and reading material, stuffed it all in a large duffel-and headed for Sunbody Beach on a mild, overcast mid-May day. In the sparsely populated parking lot of the venue I almost chickened out. My heart rate must have been over two hundred and my diastolic blood pressure over 150, my systolic over 300. I came close to dying of a coronary in my car. But as I watched a variety of people heading towards the entry portals of Sunbody, I decided at worst I would be laughed out of the place (Grandpa Geezer come to flaunt his wizened bod!) and I'd come this far, so... I could try it at least once. And gathered my stuff and strode boldly—well, shuffled timidly-up to the entryway, where a young woman glanced at me curiously and asked my age. "Why do you ask?" I inquired.

Maybe like some places that have a minimum age for entry-seventeen for R-rated movies for instance-this beach had a maximum age?

The girl gestured to a rate chart on the wall behind here. "Just wondering if you qualify for the Senior Citizen discount..." she grinned. "It's been a long time since anyone here has been eligible."

I glanced at the chart. Age 65+ got what I quickly calculated to be about a seventeen per cent discount. "Yes... I am...I do..." I muttered.

The girl grinned again and reached under the counter to pull out a ticket book that appeared to have been barely used, tore out a bright green coupon and pushed it across the surface to me and made change for the Alexander Hamilton I handed her. "Welcome to Sunbody Beach." she chortled. "We hope you enjoy your stay here. We value respect and diversity and are open to clients of all genders, races, sexual orientations and...ages." She winked at me and gestured towards the entryway.

But I had two important questions. One, "Where are the restrooms?" One side effect of advanced age: one's bladder becomes increasingly active-and insistent. The girl gestured to her left and responded, "There's one here in the entry building. And there's a port-a-pot on the beach." She hesitated, then said, "In keeping with the inclusive and open philosophy of Sunbody...all facilities are co-ed. It may take getting used to for someone of your...umm...generation..."

I could have slapped the girl, but I had another query. "Where do I get undressed?"

She stared at me as if I had just grown a third arm in the middle of my forehead, but responded, "Well, uh...anywhere you want. Most people just...um...strip...on the beach. But it's 'clothing optional'...you don't have to undress if you don't want to..." I heard a chuckle from someone standing in line behind me; apparently several clients had arrived while I was holding up the admission process.

I thanked the girl-it's a compulsive thing for people ...of my generation...and strode forward, my ears (and probably the rest of me) burning. I was already feeling utterly humiliated.

Once out of the entry building I glanced around. I was facing a rather dense thicket or woods-not the sea, though I could smell the salt ocean air.

Which way to the beach?

There were no signs but I noticed at least three sandy foot paths or trails leading into the woods.

Which one?

But momentarily a maybe early thirty-something couple (heterosexual) wearing skimpy swimsuits emerged from the entry building and stopped near me. "First time, gramps?" asked the fellow.

"It's that obvious, is it?" I said.

"Yep...but there's a first time for everything and everybody. You'll like it here. Everybody...well, almost everybody...is really nice. And we have all sorts of people, though I'll admit we don't often get...senior citizens. But we're glad to have you."

"Umm...which way to the beach?"

"Any of the trails will take you there. But we prefer the middle trail. It's not as steep as the others and the beach is less rocky and wider there. Why don't you tag along with us?"

Sounded good to me so I tagged along with...Rulon and Marcie, they said their names were, a physical therapist and a receptionist in a dentist's office, respectively. Neither of them wore wedding rings but I didn't ask-it probably didn't matter in the circumstances, anyway. And I told them I was Edward McKean, retired professor of chemistry. Rulon had frowned and said that chemistry was his worst subject-he'd barely passed. But Marcie had laughed and said she liked chemistry-especially the smelly labs. I said it took all sorts, and they agreed.

The trail was steep and slippery in places-I had to grab onto bushes or exposed roots to keep from slipping or falling-and I was very glad we hadn't taken trails number one or three if they were even steeper. Finally we emerged between two near-black gnarled stone abutments onto a rocky-sandy beach sloping downwards into foaming surf. It was no white sand /palm tree-studded tropical beach but it was good enough, I guessed. All along the beach as far as I could see there were people, single or in groups-all naked-sitting, lying, standing or walking about. A frisbee match was in progress some distance down the beach. A few individuals were playing in the swash and surf though I thought it rather rough and hoped none of them would be sucked in by undertow. I was no beach expert but had heard of such things.

Marcie gestured to our right and said that they were going to find a spot to lay out their towels and lie out; I was welcome to join them. Of course I agreed and soon our towels were side by side on a relatively smooth spot on the upper part of the beach not far from the rock wall where the sand-gravel ended abruptly.

My hosts promptly stripped off their swimsuits and stuffed them into a carry bag and lay down on their towels. I tried not to stare; they were perfectly anatomically normal human beings but I was definitely not used to seeing naked people only feet away from me making no effort to cover any of their...private parts. I tried to follow suite but it took me a great deal longer to undress; I was quite overdressed for the occasion and resolved next time-if there was a next time-to come better prepared. Like Rulon and Marcie. Well, maybe not quite THAT prepared...

Rather awkwardly I set up my new half-recliner-I had fecklessly neglected to practice its assembly at home; another oversight, but a bit late to remedy- and settled myself on my towel half-sitting up against my recliner. I felt painfully self-conscious and the wind across my body-especially my genitalia-felt very strange...and stimulating. I tried not to glance about to see if anyone were staring at the old geezer, but couldn't help myself. But almost no one was looking my...our...way...though I did notice a few curious glances (I now realize were probably because of my conspicuously geriatric status-not my nudity)...but that was all.

So we, Marcie and Rulon and I, lay there for some time, desultorily chatting while I tried not to gawk at the sights before me. So many naked bodies-tall and short, fat and thin and medium; big breasts and flat breasts with perky dark nipples and saucer-shaped flat pink "nips", and tiny dicks and hung-like-a-horse dicks, and blacks and "whites" and Asians and Hispanics, and .... I never knew so many people were into running around out-of-doors in the altogether. But what really surprised...well, to be honest... shocked me was the sex. I was almost prepared for the anatomical display...but not for the making out...nor the copulation and diverse associated activities. It might as well been called a "sex beach" rather than a "nude beach." Absence of clothing just helped facilitate...things. I had watched some internet porn before, especially in the last several years before Veronica died, when her interest in love-making had dwindled to almost nothing but mine hadn't-but this was real life, sounds and sights and even-I supposed- smells. Real people doing it, really. Including gays and lezes doing it their ways-and more than one mixed threesome and even one what looked like a gang bang. I felt my "guy" stiffening and standing up, quite against my will. But I couldn't stop him and to avoid utter embarrassment laid my shirt over him-though I didn't know if it helped. I now just had a tent with an obvious tentpole in my lap. I hadn't anticipated or prepared for this eventuality. I decided to divert my attention-and perhaps relax my guy a bit-by delving into some of the reading material I had brought along, so I rummaged in my duffel until I brought out a copy of Machiavelli's

Il Principe

(

The Prince

in English), found a marker tag for where I had last read, and settled for a good read. I know, I know-totally nerdish reading material-but as I said earlier, I'm a total nerd.

Eventually I heard a sound at my side-sort of a moan or something- and turned my head to peer at...Marcie masturbating Rulon's rapidly rising penis while he buried one hand in her spread crotch.

Oh my...

I tried to look away-and partially, intermittently, succeeded. My guy-I call him Marcus-was getting very excited and trembling. Oh, curses... If he erupted it would be the ultimate humiliation-as well as a sticky mess.

Then it got worse (or better?).. I decided there was only one thing to do: I put my book down and struggled to sit up-another problem with old age: your joints can get very stiff and anything but limber-then rolled to my side and fought to my feet. "Goin' for a swim..." I muttered but Rulon and Marcie paid me no heed; by then they were too busy eating each other in the classic sixty-nine position. They certainly had no problems with limberness. I doubted I'd ever been that flexible-but Veronica had never given me a chance to find out; the most adventurous she'd ever been in bed was doing it doggy style.

I stumbled down to the waterline; it was hard to keep my balance because of the slippery rocks and hollows-especially since one of my calves had gone to sleep while I had been reclining on the towel. Another geezer thing...

I cautiously sloshed about in some of the shallower swash while the advancing and receding water sucked sand from under me. The water was cool-not uncomfortably so but definitely far from warm- and I hoped Marcie and Rulon would finish doing their thing soon so I could go back and wrap up in a towel...maybe even pack up and go home. I was getting a bit chilled, what with the spray and wind, and, frankly was suffering a bit from sensory overload from the unceasing sexathon within my view. There were even couples "doing it" in the water. Finally it looked like my "hosts" had climaxed or something as Marcie had rolled off of Rulon and rotated and was once again lying alongside him-though their hands were still embedded in their respective crotches.