It’s almost beach time.

When I was a kid and discovered that the place where land met the sea created the North America’s largest continuous sandbox. I’ve liked spending some time each summer at the surf ever since.

Of course some years later I noticed that cute girls wearing minimal clothing gathered at the edge of the surf in bunches. Such a sight was enough to peak the interest of any red-blooded boy. Being that my blood that ran red and my eyes opened as wide as their beady sockets allowed I found the beach a great place to be when summer rolled around.

That was back in the day when we called baby oil sunscreen. Sun Protection Factors maxed out at eight and Aloe plants were grown on the porch of every beach house because there were no condos and Panama Jack hadn’t started bottling burn soothing green gel. Needless to say my back took in more heat that my eyes and time spent in the Sun was usually limited by my somewhat fair complexion.

I lived an hour and fifteen minutes from two places where the ocean washed onto a shore. St. Simon’s Island and Fernandina were the locales. Many of you mistakenly call the latter Amelia Island because somebody built a plantation there. Rest assurded that it’s a plantation in name only as I have been to the end of the island a couple of dozen times and never have seen any cows or planted corn.

Amelia’s plantation does grow a lot of itsy bitsy yella polka dot bikinis. Beachwear companies have developed a number of other eye-catching designs as well. It’s amazing what the wonders a creative mind can work with a string of cloth.

Unfortunately, gates and guards protect the view of the plantation goods. My buddies and I grew adept and convincing the gatekeepers there that we had befriended half of the residents to the point that they thought we owned a few units ourselves.

In the end working was a major deterrent to combing beaches for bikinis so trips to the ocean dunes were too few but made a lasting impression.

Having children redirected the focus back to the sandbox experience. Little girls love digging in the sand and it turns out their daddies can grow fanatical about it as well. Dig up enough sand and creating arches, coliseums and lagoons complete with sand made monsters only take time and a little imagination.

People watching is, however, still a major past-time. I do limit it to periods while sitting under an umbrella next to my wife. Observations center more on spotting surgical body enhancements and alterations rather that on the latest bikini fashion. I probably shouldn’t admit to oogling female eye candy, but my blood is still red and my eyesight and appreciation for God’s diligent work remains intact.

Like I said though, my wife, who I find quite the eye candy herself, is at my side and I can’t even remember a pick-up line. That makes people watching strictly an observation sport.

Viewings at the beach aren’t always pleasant though and wardrobe fouls seem to be more common than twenty-five years ago. Wardrobe fouls are noted when the flesh to cloth ratio is deemed excessive. Even worse, there is the safety hazard of stretching Spandex beyond its practical application. Recoil when those suckers bust can be fatal.

I have lobbied officials to institute an overlap rule so that the beach patrol can require additional coverage on anyone whose belly laps over the top of their suit to the point that the waistband is no longer visible.

The worst violators are men in bikini suits, particularly those with hairy backs. That’s about as far from eye candy as you can get. Good taste and violation of the overlap rule preclude me from bikini shorts, but I do get a back waxing each year so no one winces when I walk past.

This year I sense that I’ll be leaving the sandbox stage and re-entering the bikini watching phase, only this time I will be watching the watchers instead of the bikinis. Having one teenage daughter and another a few years from that age will do that to you.

I guess that means making a wardrobe modification so I will have somewhere to strap in my gun. I know what those boys are thinking.