Against the grain

Two beaches for the sand-hater within

by Chris Wright

I HATE SANDY beaches. It's not so much the scorching heat, the spiteful flies, the heaving flesh (the flab, the abs), the crappy paperbacks, the soggy snacks, the tepid Dr Pepper. It's not even the horrible, ear-infesting sand. The main reason I hate sandy beaches is that there's nothing to do. Sandy beaches are boring.

Humans are curious animals. It is against our nature to just sit about. That's how we have telephones, music, penicillin, and rollerblades. That's why we have America. What did the Pilgrims do when they landed on Plymouth Rock? I'll tell you what they didn't do: they didn't spread out a piece of sackcloth and plunk down with the Good Book; nor did they peel off their clothing, slather themselves with pork fat, and start working on their wrinkles. If that had been their inclination, they never would have come here in the first place; they'd have been flat out on the sludgy seaside strips of Southampton or Portsmouth. No, the Pilgrims satisfied a fundamental human impulse. They went exploring. They did something.

That's why the sedentary so-called pleasures of sandy beaches leave me cold, and why I adore places like Halibut Point State Park and the seaside town of Salisbury.

Jutting between Folly Cove and Hoop Pole Cove, just north of Rockport, Halibut Point is a 54-acre oasis of tidal pools, flora, fauna, crashing surf, twittering birds, and some of the prettiest rocky shoreline imaginable. Located on the northeastern tip of Massachusetts, Salisbury is a shambles of video parlors, fried-dough joints, cheesy gift shops, dingy bars, and crippled carnival rides. At first glance, these two spots couldn't be more different. Beauty and the Beast. Henry David Thoreau and Adam Sandler. But I love Salisbury and Halibut Point equally, and -- strangely -- for the same reason: there's stuff to do. Both places engage the senses, get the blood going, and offer the opportunity for adventure -- beyond third-degree burns or getting hit in the head with a Frisbee.

TO GET to the beach at Halibut Point, you make your way from the parking lot through a patch of woods, along a narrow path vaulted by small trees. Songbirds bend the saplings by your side. The sweet smell of mulch and the tinkle of nearby brooks arouse a little aah of contentment. The sunshine is dappled, soft, a perpetual twilight. You wouldn't be too surprised to see the odd elf scampering about, Bambi and Thumper rubbing noses in the brush. When you emerge from the woods, squinting, you see Babson Farm Quarry to your left, with its inviting (though forbidden) turquoise depths and sheer granite walls. Continue on, over a small incline, and the spectacle of the Atlantic Ocean opens up before you: great swaths of sky and sea underlined by the rocky coast. As Wordsworth put it whilst gazing down on his beloved Tintern Abbey, "The picture of the mind revives again." Looking out on Halibut Point you get what he meant. It's like a booster shot for the spirit, a dust cloth swiped across the mind's eye.

I'm not sure what Wordsworth would have made of Salisbury. (Commotion recollected in tranquillity?) The shabby seaside town is more sub shop than sublime. Yet there's still the little lurch of joy as you make your way up its ramshackle strip -- more of a whee than an aah, but there all the same: a creeping tingle of anticipation. To look at the fluctuating rooftops, the jerrybuilt funhouses and their beckoning backlit signs, you'd hardly know you were beside one of the most beautiful coastlines in America. Or what would be one of the most beautiful, but for the fact that the actual beach is stippled with butts and bottle caps. French fries and fried dough litter the sidewalk. Discarded wrappers glint in the sun. But then, the outdoors is not a big part of the Salisbury experience. Inside is what it's all about -- that's where the bars are, the slots are, the plastic knickknacks are. Salisbury is not about gathering exaltation, it's about filling your face with greasy food, jamming your pockets with quarters, and beating the crap out of little plastic moles.

Having said that, Halibut Point, for all its natural splendor, often has a similar appeal. Hopping from rock to rock tests your eye-hand (or eye-foot) coordination much the same way a game of Frogger does. Weaving through waves of pixellated pellets in Galaxian and dodging Halibut Point's ocean waves are basically the same game. Skeeball and stone-skipping have obvious parallels. Salisbury's most technologically loopy machine -- an Addams Family-themed game -- invites you to pay a buck, grip a pair of metal handles, and withstand increasingly large electrical jolts ("Ouch! Ha ha! Ouch!"). Halibut Point's version is the icy slap of a wave upside the head. In short, both Halibut Point and Salisbury can be a hoot.

Speaking of which, the day I went to Salisbury I committed karaoke. My first time. I discovered that I can carry a tune like I can carry a 50-pound sack of coal: staggeringly. It was, I admit, a long shot from the mockingbirds, waxwings, warblers, and other beaky sopranos whose chorus fills the air around Halibut Point. The only chirping you'll hear at Salisbury is that of the ravenous slots, punctuated by the crackle of electronic gunfire. Indeed, the sounds of Salisbury aren't always particularly soothing. The self-described "Karaoke Queen" who sang Melissa Etheridge's "I'm the Only One" sounded like a brace of seagulls in a blender. But anything -- anything -- is better than the ubiquitous caterwaul of classic rock that fills the air of your average sandy beach. At least I had the option of leaving the bar -- and the Karaoke Queen -- behind.

Which I did, beating a hasty trail to the shack of Madam Jean. You wouldn't think of Salisbury as the kind of place to ponder your past, present, and future, but Madam Jean will help you do just that. For a ten-spot -- the most I was willing to pay -- she'll tell you "what I see," and roll her eyes at you into the bargain. According to Salisbury's grumpy palmist, I'm going to live into my 80s, someday meet the right woman (she missed the wedding ring), and -- she wasn't sure how -- sooner or later get rich. Scintillating as all that was, you'll learn a lot more about yourself gazing into a crystalline tidal pool. At least your inner voice doesn't brazenly stifle a yawn.

As you reflect on your life, gazing into Halibut Point's tidal pools, you'll also learn a bit about wildlife. Not that the life here is what you'd call wild. Nonetheless, even the languorous barnacles, the listless periwinkles, and the sluggish blue mussels do more than just hang about. The occasional plop of a bubble, the almost imperceptible movement of a shell, lets you in on the action taking place beneath the pool's unruffled surface. Even if you're not lucky enough to see a pair of ragged claws scuttling among the Irish moss, the colors themselves seethe with life. Yellows seep into greens, greens into browns, browns into reds, reds into rusts and russets, olives and tans, and back once more to yellows. It's every bit as addictive as video poker: the more you look, the more you don't want to look away.

The colors in Salisbury are flatter, brighter, and not at all subtle. This is especially true of the many-hued gift shops, with their stacks of plastic buckets and spades, glossy magazines, message-bearing T-shirts and hats, floral sarongs, and garish shorts. Outside are the primary-colored buildings, the pink mottles of stepped-on gum, the purplish faces (too much booze or sun) of passersby, and the orange glow of their inevitable cigarettes.

But the most colorful thing about Salisbury is the signs -- or the names on them, which, more often than not, favor the possessive: Willey's Ice Cream, Bevie B's Rock 'n' Roll Café, Happy's Fried Dough, Ozzie's Fried Dough, Blink's Fry Doe, Christy's Pizza, Jilly's Pizza, Giuseppi's Pizza, Angelina's Sub & Pizza, Jabe's Pizza & Subs, Joe's Playland, Jay's Crafts, Lee Hunt's Seafood, Eddie's Lounge, Stella's Place, Maria's Pasta Villa. . . .

Halibut Point yields some interesting appellations of its own: knotted wrack, sea wrack, maiden hair, the purple sea star, sea grass, sea lettuce, dog whelks, winged kelp. But the real poetry here is wordless: who needs literary imagery when you're surrounded by such images? Why fumble with definitions of beauty when you can reach out and touch it? Out here, symbols only get in the way. You don't even need a watch. The band of light sliding behind the horizon says it all.

As nighttime crashes the Salisbury party, meanwhile, things are just heating up. Strings of motorcycles splutter into town. Sunburned skin gives way to vast expanses of denim; plastic sandals to kick-ass boots. Tank-topped teens swap insults and invitations across the busy strip. The barrooms overflow; music and laughter clatter onto the street. Somewhere, a bottle smashes. This, too, tells you all you need to know.

Time to go home.

As I drive along Beach Road, the glare and blare of Salisbury receding behind me, I reach over and pat a little tin lighthouse I won playing video poker. I feel lucky. Pulling out of Halibut Point State Park I feel luckier, as though I've come away with something even more valuable. I arrive home tired yet revived, free of the sluggish mood that almost invariably follows a day spent lolling under the sun.

And, best of all, there isn't single grain of sand on me.