odd weather, typical abuse of authority

another weekend at anmok...

part of the conditioning of the DNA of one's having spent so much of his or her life at the beach is that one appreciates the beach and will go to the beach in all sorts of weather: sunny, cloudy, clear, stormy, hot, cool, humid, snowy, freezing. it's the beach, for fuck's sakes. having marveled at how so many in our circle of friends either didn’t make it to last weekend’s south-seas-esque beauty fest--or made it only at late hours of the afternoon--we didn’t expect to see many people this past weekend at anmok beach.

as you can see above, this past weekend’s water was not as spectacular-looking compared to last weekend, but that doesn’t mean that the water wasn’t any less clear. it was, in fact, clear enough to see more than two meters below the water surface; however, from out of the water, up on the beach, without the sun to illuminate the water in such tourist-guide types of hues, the sea looks rather dreary and dully coloured. furthermore, the water temperature was, as a result of last weekend's desultory heat, noticeably warmer.

and we were right: not many showed up at this past weekend’s edition of anmok beach. however, i’m beginning to believe the reason they don’t show up is not because they’re not beachgoers like me (well, they really aren’t, in all reality), but because they allow such things as tiredness, drunkenness from the night before, or the steady jackhammer of all things hungover from said night before to interfere with their analysis of that which is beautiful and natural. i mean, think about it—in which locale would you like to nurse your hangover and/or leftover drunkenness: the muggy confines of your flat, tucked cowardly under the covers or in the glory of sun, sand, and surf? unless you hail from the north of siberia, greenland, or the middle of the world’s deserts, it should be an easy choice.

nonetheless, i’m not here to offend those who can’t mix their hangovers and their time at the beach nursing said hangovers back to drunkenness; i’m here to pass along another in the long line of abuses of authority for their lack of nothing better to do.

the weekend previous, the one with the beautifully-coloured scenes, saw the temps hovering around 35 degrees Celsius with a good degree of humidity. this past weekend, however, was odd: the temps were only in the high 20s, though the humidity was akin to that inside a gorilla’s vagina. such humidity isn’t odd in korea, though perhaps in a gorilla (and i've no concrete proof of that) but july daytime temps of only the high 20s are as unusual as a conciliatory apology from an american president.

a peculiar thing about korean beaches—at the same time as infuriating as it is comical—is the fact that beachgoers have to pay (around US$10) for the privilege of placing their common asses on the sand to see what it is that nature intended for living creatures to appreciate (to the degree that they are capable). it is a source of embarrassment for a country like korea to have to believe that this is necessary, and it places them in the top 10 of nations deemed laughingstocks of the world. at anmok, there is a 50-meter space where the common citizen doesn’t have to pay homage to the powers that be, but that’s it: on the rest of the beach, one must pay or be hassled and often forced to move.

after having sat in one of the pay-per-sit places during the already numerously-referenced weekend of pulchritude (though we didn’t have to pay, as all of us, including my wife, just feigned ignorance at the obvious urgings by the beach authorities for us either to pay or leave), we decided to sit in our familiar spot from the summer of ’04. so, there we sat, my wife reading a humour magazine and I trying to find meaning in the bottom of a 9-pack of CASS. we marveled at the clarity of the water in the breaking waves regardless of the hues in this week's water, ate some processed sandwiches from the local convenience store, and wondered incredulously at how a trio of middle school vixens, with a whole beach in which to place their gawky asses, decided that mere centimeters to the right of me and my heavily-guarded icebox was the best spot on the beach. soon enough, after negotiating my way through maze of increasingly-empty beer cans, i was able to tune them out and focus my attention to a group of men, at a more respectable distance to our left, who were in the midst of an amazing act of clam-digging.