By Clint Younts

Shit, it’s been a tough year, and we still have six months left. Sure, 2020 has been awful and last year hasn’t been much better, but for many of us the past few months have been brutal. Too many sorrows, too many funerals. You’re at home plate with a 3-2 count, thinking you’re going to knock that pitch down in the stands, but Life throws a bad curveball. Strike 3. Some people might quit and hang up their cleats, but not me. I just swap my shoes for flip flops and head to the beach.

I’m not sure what magic the Gulf Coast holds, but the salty air and crashing waves can definitely help wash away the blues. The second I put my aching butt on my beach chair and wiggle my toes in the hot sand, I begin my therapy session and immediately feel better. And as I open the first beer of the day, I toast with my wife saying, “Life is good today.”

Once the gulf breeze clears the cobwebs from my skull, and often after a second beer, my mind is no longer stagnant, stuck in second gear. My brain gears up twice and kicks into high gear. Reaching into the beach bag to grab my notebook and a pen that I slipped into the doctor’s office, I start writing another column.

There is so much to see at the beach and so many questions to ponder. For example, have you ever wondered if pelicans complain that they only eat fish every day? Do you suppose a pelican looks over its wing and says, “I don’t know about you, Gus, but I’d be dying for a pepperoni pizza right now”?

I still don’t like tattooing their body very much, but it’s their body, their choice. But when I see a guy with a huge swastika engraved on his chest, I tell myself that he will not be invited to participate in a game of beach volleyball.

How do fifty seagulls know you just opened a bag of sunflower seeds? If their sense of smell is so good, why doesn’t Border Patrol use them at checkpoints instead of drugged dogs?

Who else still finds sand in the back of your Tahoe three months after returning from the beach, even after thoroughly vacuuming the car six times? Where is he from ?

Has a crazy old man ever sued the flip-flop maker after he punctured and broke his hip on the boardwalk? I had a lot of close calls in my youth, so now in my twilight years my beach attire consists of a sombrero, Speedo and Justin boots. I believe in being careful and fashionable.

Speaking of flip flops, don’t you think they should be banned if you work in the garden? For years I warned my wife not to wear these things while cutting weeds in her flower bed. I’m pleasantly surprised she still has ten toes.

Why doesn’t the town of Aransas Pass put Port-a-potties along the road to the ferry landing? I can’t tell you how many times that Big Gulp I bought in Beeville is ready to pop out of my urethra while I’m waiting in line for the ferry. There should be an express lane for emergency vehicles and old farts with weak sphincters. Just say.

You would think that after 50 years on beaches across America, I would have learned to cover every patch of exposed skin with sunscreen. I still manage to get sunburned on one part of my body and I have to hear my wife say, “Why didn’t you apply sunscreen there? There’s nothing appealing about having dead skin hanging from your earlobe like an old spider’s web.

It’s been a few weeks since we’ve been in Port A, and I keep dumping sand out of my boots, but I’m not complaining. My sunburn stopped flaking and turned brown. My mind is clear and my soul has healed. Even with the chaos around us, I’m ready to get back to home plate in the next inning. Life might throw another curveball, but I’ll be ready. Sure, I could hit, but then I could just knock the ball out of the park. Life is good today.