Come in Our Hole
As I mentioned this morning, I spent about 24 hours on Fire Island this weekend, arriving as the cloudy, gray sky parted to reveal a hot sun and bikini-clad females, leaving with a nice one-day tan, an upset stomach and a screaming headache. Good times, great oldies.
Now this much is clear: Anyone who voluntarily elects to spend the weekend in the Hamptons over Fire Island is a fraud and a nincompooop. I'll never quite understand why you'd ever choose to put up with all the bullshit involved with the Hamptons when you can get a laid-back beach weekend with all the fun and none of the hassles.
Of course, I'll admit that comparing the Hamptons to Fire Island is like comparing Las Vegas to Atlantic City -- there are overwhelming similarities between the two, but the two places are nothing alike. Still, to me, this decision's a real Schiavo, a total no-brainer.
I'll skip the pleasantries of chronicling the awesome day/night trip, but any period of time that involves relaxing on the beach, chillin' on a deck playing cards and listening to music, munching down on a world-class barbeque (bacon embedded inside the hamburger patties), drinkin' beers and hittin' the doje, playing Flip Cup and Beirut, pre-partying with a solid crew of girls and guys and going out to some outside bars in shorts and sandals ain't exactly a bad time.
And while there were many highlights among those activities, the lasting image of the weekend will forever be a giant hole (and yes, there are about a million "hole" double entendres, and no, they never cease to be funny). At one point of our beach-going experience, two members of our party decided it was time "to dig the hole." Confused, I didn't ask what that meant, and I even played along when they asked me to move my stuff back a few feet. And then one started to remove sand from the beach with a frisbee and commence the excavation. The other searched for a child's shovel to expedite the process.
Slowly the hole started to take shape, and the boys decided to make the biggest hole of the summer. They were going wide and going deep, and sure enough, the rest of the gang concurred this had the potential to be the largest hole. I still had no clue what was going on, but was told to "watch the social phenomenon that unfolds." Sheeet, negro, that's all you had to say, I love that kind of shit.
About an hour into the digging, with the hole now clearly visible from Google Earth, people started to take a big interest in our activities. The hole now getting deeper and wider, one older gentleman came by to make sure we'd refill the hole, as an elderly lady (not behind the counter in a small town) tripped in an unrelated hole on the beach just last week. A middle-aged woman and her husband came by to warn us about the dangers of a sudden collapse of the hole's walls, enclosing the current digger in a sandy sarcophagus. But those people weren't the intended targets.
The real target: lovely ladies. This was the fourth weekend this crew had come out to Fire Island this summer, and in all of the previous three, digging this giant hole attracted a different group of girls to party with that evening. Guys and girls alike see only a man's head and big piles of sand evacuated from its original spot, and they flock to see what's going on. Beachgoers are flat-out mystified, they just can't believe other people would dig a hole on the beach for no good reason. They rush over and ask, "What's it do?" or "What next?" or "Why would you do that?" but they never realize they're part of the game. Your stopping by our hole is the answer to the questions you're asking, sir or madam.
Make that four for four, a perfect 1.000 batting average. As the hole creation ceased -- the beach-crater probably topping out at six-feet deep and three-feet wide -- a nice group of beautiful babies stopped by to discuss the day's activities. Turns out, they're free to come by our place at 10:30 for Survivor: Flip Cup and some general hang-age. Did I just say "beautiful babies?" Jeez, what year is this, 1997?
(left, above: a crew of girls come to see our hole...the shoe is on the other hand now, eh? right, below: Brian pretends its 1987 in Midland, Texas and he's Jessica McClure)
What is it about a hole that makes it act like the North or South pole of a chick magnet? What exactly attracts people to see a hollowed out section of the beach? After witnessing the events of the weekend I still can't say for sure. But I do know this much: These kids I was with are fucking sexy-time geniuses. They know the beginning, middle and end of the story before it's written. They know where to dig, when to dig, how to go from "Do you wanna come in my hole?" to "See you tonight." It's really a thing of beauty.
But most of all, it makes the weekend fun, free and easy. Just like the women who wanted to see our hole.