Anybody who’s been following this blog knows by now how fate
has consistently paired me up with the mountains. La Paz, the Andes; Nepal, the
Himalayas; Morocco, the Middle Atlas Mountains; our house in Tryon is located
in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains; Germany before that, the Alps. It
was finally nice to be assigned to a country with a beach that’s easily
accessible.
Here in Dar, we live less than a block from Coco Beach, a vast and wide area that stretches along Toure Drive, the main road that turns and winds its way all the way to the tip of the peninsula that is Oyster Bay. The beach itself starts with a sea of green: there is a jungle of cacti, here and there a palm tree sprouting out, and so many plants and bushes jumping out of the ground that you wouldn’t think you were near a sandy beach.
Here in Dar, we live less than a block from Coco Beach, a vast and wide area that stretches along Toure Drive, the main road that turns and winds its way all the way to the tip of the peninsula that is Oyster Bay. The beach itself starts with a sea of green: there is a jungle of cacti, here and there a palm tree sprouting out, and so many plants and bushes jumping out of the ground that you wouldn’t think you were near a sandy beach.
Walk a few yards more and you’ll see the first few tents.
These are tents belonging to vendors selling various items: tires for the kids
to float in, boats, and sometimes just drinks and snacks. How many of these
tents double as residences, I don’t know, but it’s obvious a lot of people live
directly on the beach, as evidenced by the numerous trash deposits,
clotheslines, and chairs and tables scattered about.
On the weekends, Cocoa Beach itself is a big party. It seems every Saturday some company produces a gigantic stage (weather pending), DJ’s, bands, and rappers do their impromptu performances, and people are up almost all night enjoying the music and the calm sea breeze. We can hear it all the way to our house, although it really doesn’t bother us.
If the stage isn’t there, you walk past the tents and that’s where the long white carpet of sandy beach is rolled out for miles in both directions. Usually you will see locals taking a stroll, every now and then people go skinny dipping, depending on the tide. Once the tide starts rolling in with the waves, you’ll find plenty of surfers, even para surfers skipping over the waves like flat stones.
On the horizon, there are dozens of boats floating over the pale blue water. Some of them must be fishing, others are lazily idling in the sunshine, the gentle rhythm of the waves rocking them to sleep. Further out, there are container ships, which are the only eyesore here: big bulky sea vessels as large as luxury liners making their way down the Indian Ocean.
At low tide, you can probably walk for a hundred yards in the water until you’re even knee deep. Every square foot of the beach is covered by seaweed or algae, and there’s little chance you will see a wave any bigger than the size of a dollhouse. It does make for a calmer surf, which is why most locals then venture out on foot or boat when they otherwise wouldn’t.
A nice soft breeze sweeps in from the ocean, although it is still muggy and humid, beach or not. This is the best place to be during the dog days of summer, which means now, or January until roughly March. The breeze offers temporary relief from a scorching sun and its dagger rays cutting through skin.
On this day, I am also dog-sitting, so I take Pip, the retriever, out on the beach for a walk. Pip is a friendly but dynamic dog. In the middle of our walk, he storms a barbecue party, virtually scattering all the locals in different directions. Something tells me that this is not the dog friendliest of nations. They seem horrified by the black dog in their midst.
Not to worry. Luckily, Pip is a friendly dog and people retain their seats. Pip, like me, is happy to be there and sniffs every inch of the beach for any concealed clues or news left by his mates before him.
Heading back home, I have to laugh. Only a month ago we were covering ourselves in multiple layers of clothing in miserable Arlington in a never-ending winter featuring several snowstorms and subfreezing temperatures just aching to reduce us to human snowmen. Here, I am dressed in a shirt, shorts, and shoes, the bare acceptable minimum in a modern civilization.
Nice to be in a place that doesn’t require sweaters or jackets for a change.
On the weekends, Cocoa Beach itself is a big party. It seems every Saturday some company produces a gigantic stage (weather pending), DJ’s, bands, and rappers do their impromptu performances, and people are up almost all night enjoying the music and the calm sea breeze. We can hear it all the way to our house, although it really doesn’t bother us.
If the stage isn’t there, you walk past the tents and that’s where the long white carpet of sandy beach is rolled out for miles in both directions. Usually you will see locals taking a stroll, every now and then people go skinny dipping, depending on the tide. Once the tide starts rolling in with the waves, you’ll find plenty of surfers, even para surfers skipping over the waves like flat stones.
On the horizon, there are dozens of boats floating over the pale blue water. Some of them must be fishing, others are lazily idling in the sunshine, the gentle rhythm of the waves rocking them to sleep. Further out, there are container ships, which are the only eyesore here: big bulky sea vessels as large as luxury liners making their way down the Indian Ocean.
At low tide, you can probably walk for a hundred yards in the water until you’re even knee deep. Every square foot of the beach is covered by seaweed or algae, and there’s little chance you will see a wave any bigger than the size of a dollhouse. It does make for a calmer surf, which is why most locals then venture out on foot or boat when they otherwise wouldn’t.
A nice soft breeze sweeps in from the ocean, although it is still muggy and humid, beach or not. This is the best place to be during the dog days of summer, which means now, or January until roughly March. The breeze offers temporary relief from a scorching sun and its dagger rays cutting through skin.
On this day, I am also dog-sitting, so I take Pip, the retriever, out on the beach for a walk. Pip is a friendly but dynamic dog. In the middle of our walk, he storms a barbecue party, virtually scattering all the locals in different directions. Something tells me that this is not the dog friendliest of nations. They seem horrified by the black dog in their midst.
Not to worry. Luckily, Pip is a friendly dog and people retain their seats. Pip, like me, is happy to be there and sniffs every inch of the beach for any concealed clues or news left by his mates before him.
Heading back home, I have to laugh. Only a month ago we were covering ourselves in multiple layers of clothing in miserable Arlington in a never-ending winter featuring several snowstorms and subfreezing temperatures just aching to reduce us to human snowmen. Here, I am dressed in a shirt, shorts, and shoes, the bare acceptable minimum in a modern civilization.
Nice to be in a place that doesn’t require sweaters or jackets for a change.
Life’s good. Or shall we say, life’s a beach.
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