Morning Walks on the Beach

I arrived in Clearwater, FL over a week ago Wednesday and it was a rough stay. I ran across a lot of bad luck, but in the midst of all that bad luck, last Saturday morning was still a surprise.

The weather was stormy due to the season, but if you get up early, you can still enjoy a nice walk on the beach before the rain comes in. I had tried a few times to wake up early enough to catch the sunrise, but various events prohibited me from setting out in time, including long phone calls, a flat tire, and bowel problems. But Saturday morning, I set several alarms and actually left the house before the sky was light.

There are a few parking spaces right near the beach where the meters don’t go into effect until 8am – since it was only 6:30, I intended to find one of these. The city, however, had decided to schedule construction for one of their most-traveled beach-side roads over the weekend, so my normal route was road blocked and I had to circle around to check the other end of the beach. I found a side road with a path that fed directly to the beach, so I parked and waited in my car until the big Tymco street sweeping truck passed by, then headed out to the sand.

Mornings on the beach attract only those dedicated enough to be up at that hour – whether starting a new day or finishing out the last – so the only population at this hour was a jogger, a few teenagers in formal wear and the big tractor the city employs to turn the sand along the public stretch of beach. Though the noise from the tractor disturbs the light breeze and quiet crash of the waves, freshly raked, cool, damp sand is a unique pleasure to naked feet.

While strolling along the wet, packed sand, the chilled waves slipping around my bare soles managed to rinse the sleep from my mind, but also evoked that early morning need to pee. So after a quick course adjustment, I was heading past the raked sand and the tractor making his switchbacks, past the vacant volleyball courts, onto the sidewalk where a city employee with a leaf blower was clearing the path of accumulated sand, past the Tymco sweeper who was now working on the beach parking lot and onto the two – and only two – public restrooms provided for beach-goers. By this time, I was racing nature and took the first door I came to, which happened to be the handicapped restroom. The sun was about to rise, so I wanted to make it quick. As soon as I was about to do my business, someone tried to open the door. After a few attempts, finding it locked on each one, they stopped. I finished and was washing my hands when I heard a click and a snicker. I turned around, unbolted the door and pushed, but it only moved about an inch so I pushed again and through my exasperation found metal rods blocking the door. I figured the teenagers were playing a prank on me, so I called out for someone: “Is anybody there!?” The only answer I got was the combined din of the sweeper, the blower and the tractor.

There was a 6 inch gap between the bottom of the door and the floor, but to squeeze out of that would mean wallowing in that wet, sandy, mystery mix covering the floor of every public beach restroom. There was a larger space above of the door, but that big beautiful gap – halved by a chain connecting the door to its jam – was about 8 ft. off the ground. With nothing else to do, I checked it out: grasping the deadbolt with my toes and hanging tightly to the rough-cut thick plywood of the door, a hearty hoist brought me high enough to look over the top. Greeted by the pretty pastels of the beach’s morning sky, I lost hope staring out across the vacant north half of the beach and parking lot. The sweeper, tractor and blower had moved along just enough so they couldn’t see me, but were still noisy enough to drown out my calls for help. Peering down I saw the 3” pad lock confining me and wondered, “Why the hell would anyone lock a public beach restroom on a Saturday morning?” Without much hope, I swung one leg over the door, scraping my skin on the frayed wood. I intended to slide over the top and drop to the ground, but the chain which clove the gap in two blocked this escape plan.

With the way the morning was going, I was sure some tourist would stroll by just in time to see me poking my head, one arm and one leg, up to the knee, out of the top of a padlocked, handicap bathroom stall, calling for help – the fates would ensure they’d have a camera with them – but amazingly and a little disappointingly, no one showed. Pulling myself back inside, my frustration spiked – not only as I locked inside a public restroom, I was going to miss the sunrise – the only reason I got out of bed at 6am on a Saturday in the first place.

All hope of catching the sunrise lost, I clung to the door – my fingers peeking over above and my toes poking out below – calling half-heartedly for help.

With the buzz and hum of all the motors around me drowning out even my thoughts of self-pity, I almost missed it. “Hello?” I straightened and with a raised eyebrow said, “Hello!?”

“Hello?”

“Yes! Hello? Help!”

“Where are you?”

“I’m locked in the bathroom!”

“Oh. …Hang on.”

“Okay, thanks!”

A kind old city employee – possibly the one who locked me in in the first place – let me out and apologized for the trouble. Having missed the sunrise, I headed home and have been having weird dreams about being locked in bathrooms since.