The lost beaches

Part 5

by Jason Gay with Sarah McNaught

So you change your mind. You are going to buck your fears, suck it up, and give Malibu Beach a shot. You drop your car keys in your sneakers, step gingerly across the sand, and wade into the water. Slowly.

The water is barely above your ankles, and you can still see your feet. You take this as a good sign. You pay no attention to the gaggle of carefree kids flopping around in the water beside you -- they're kids, after all; what the hell do they know? You've assessed the risks, you've read the material, you know what you're getting into. You hope.

You look up at the Southeast Expressway and watch a Hood truck caught in 5:30 p.m. traffic. To the east is the Boston Gas tank; to the west, the colorful beginnings of a sunset. Savin Hill is sure a nice neighborhood, you say to yourself. Maybe I should live here.

All right, it's time to cut the crap and stop procrastinating. You clap your hands together and take several long, deep, slightly dramatic breaths. You bend your knees and before thinking any more about it -- splash! -- you plunge forward, underwater.

For some reason, you open your eyes. You expect to find a garbage can, a rusted VW camper, perhaps Whitey Bulger. Instead, you see clearly for several yards in front of you -- water, sand, and thick rows of beach grass. You are below the surface of Boston Harbor, and you are wondering what took you so long to get here.

Out of air, you rise to the water's surface. Your hair hasn't fallen out; your bathing suit hasn't disintegrated. You are a believer. You are back at the beach.

Jason Gay and Sarah McNaught can be reached at jgay[a]phx.com and smcnaught[a]phx.com, respectively.