Before I knew the meaning of ozone or global warming—back when deodorant came in a Freon-infested can and Al Gore had not yet begun his political career—having a tan was equated with looking healthy. And for many, myself included, the beach is synonymous with summertime. As a child, portions of most summers were spent on the coast of Maine. Sea&Ski was the suntan lotion of choice and, if I could find some,

I’m sure the scent would bring back the feeling of sand under my toes and Herring Gulls squawking overhead at Goose Rocks Beach in Maine. In those pre-teen days, I spent most of my beach time in the water—swimming or floating until I was tired, then finding a piece of rockweed on the way to the shore, and pretending it was a dragon’s tail as I dragged it behind me.

During my teens, I graduated to Bain de Soleil (“…for the Saint Tropez tan…”) suntan oil with an SPF of maybe 4, and overlooked how the orange tint would stain my towel because I loved the way it smelled. In those days, I spent less time in the water, and more time just relaxing on my orange-tinted towel. The ultimate summer afternoon for me was a cloudless one, spent at the beach with my portable radio.

Now, in my older, wiser, sun-damage aware years, I am covered from head to toe with Coppertone SFP 15 when I go to the beach. I love the whole process of settling into the sand—arranging the towel so it’s facing towards the sun just so, securing its edges with shoes, the radio, and the cooler. Once settled, people watching is exercise enough. (Best done in the company of others—“What a cute suit!” “Wow—someone loves their ‘Sun-In’…” “I didn't know they made Speedos that small…”) There is something universal about “going to the beach”—regardless of age or place, or sunscreen preference, the union of sun, sand, and water spells out summertime like nothing else can.