“What do you mean why am I bringing the hat?”

Our mother’s voice was shrill and always carried a hint of confusion.

“Do you know how long it takes to get sand out of your hair?”

My childhood visits to the beach were never fully appreciated until I suffered an extreme sun burn, the police were dispatched for public intoxication, or I tried to take the city bus home. The beach can often be a source of peace, even harmony to normal families.  These families would find such an excursion to be a way of bonding and spending time together.

My family just found it an easy way to embarrass each other in public.

My brother Jason and I were going to be subject to a day full of attention from onlookers. And, just to add some excitement to the day, my mother decided to let her on-and-off boyfriend, Ray, come along.

Miami Beach was ten miles from home, but my mother would pack as if we were nomads, collecting and trading things along our journey. Suitcases were packed to the brim with clothes, seemingly for every season, but my mother rationalized each item. The hat she struggled to fit on her head was a snow cap. It was a hand-knitted, purple mess.

It had once had a large cotton ball on the end which dangled from a green braid, but over time the ball had simply fallen off; only the braid remaining.

People either thought that I had knitted the hat myself or that she had escaped from an adult living center.

It was never forgotten though, whether it was a beach trip, an outing to the movie theater, or a parent-teacher orientation at my school. That hat was practically an extension of my mother, and just as embarrassing. Spare pants and long shirts were taken in case there was a “breeze”.

The temperature would reach one hundred and fifteen during a typical day in Miami Beach.

It was easy to hide the unnecessary wardrobe in the car, but no beachgoer was going to miss the grotesque, 11-foot-long, pink kayak strapped to our Pontiac Phoenix as it bounced over the curb of the parking lot.

It was as if we had strapped a flamingo carcass to our roof.

Ray had stolen the kayak from Ace Hardware years ago and kept it as yard furniture. The majority of the park residents had either sat in it, slept in it or gotten sick in it at some point. It was a familiar landmark for the people.

The color had kept its shiny, artificial tone. Its blushing luster remained, as if it were perpetually embarrassed of itself. Various kids, or Ray’s family, had drawn all over it with black marker. There were numerous carvings along the sides of the craft — invisible traces of gang monikers and lewd drawings.

The kayak had seen better days. It had warped under the sun, and the weight of the park denizens, so it had a fairly noticeable slope in the middle. It was not sea worthy to any rational mind. But much to the neighbors’ surprise, my mother was taking it with us.

She had chosen the kayak when faced with the dilemma that both the kayak and rope hammock would not fit in the car. It didn’t bother my mom that there were no trees on the beach to hang a hammock or that no one in their right mind would try to paddle out into the ocean with a kayak in that condition.

Let alone one with a large penis drawn into the side.

We flipped the kayak over, watching the cigarette butts and beer bottles fall out like a waterfall of bad choices. Ray hoisted it onto his shoulders and carried it to the car. To her, it was something else in the house that could, in some way, be related to water.

From my uncle Jim’s tackle box, to a boat seat cushion, we were prepared for anything when we left the trailer park. Food was something we always had at the beach as well. Yes, it was edible, but it was not food that complemented thick humidity. Tuna fish casserole and reheated mashed potatoes were often packed into the family cooler with the cracked top (Ray used it as a chair and occasional stepstool to get onto his roof).

The beat up box had been acquired at a garage sale where it sat below a sign that read:

“Free: if you can fit it.”

The food never remained cold and I would often find myself staring at other families on the beach enjoying ice cream cones and crisp fruit salads.

I would have cried with envy had the meatloaf I was gnawing on not sucked all the moisture from my mouth.

All the annoyances of the day vanished when we pulled up to the turquoise masterpiece. My legs ran before my body was even out of the car as I sprinted to the water staring at me.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion as I pranced across the sand and breathed in the scenery. I watched as waves rolled in perfect symmetry and palm trees danced in the breeze to reggae music from the restaurant behind us. A seagull winked at me as it soared overhead.

The contrast from where we had just come from was surreal. The crest of the first wave tumbled over and swam to my toes as I stepped onto the cool, damp sand and positioned my body to dive in.

The silence was broken.

“Gregory! Wait!” I heard a voice pierce the air like gunfire.

It was her.

“I need to put on your lotion!” she shouted into the open sky.

My mother dropped the cooler into the sand and ran towards me — arms flailing. The moment of peace had come and gone as quickly as the wave that was now far from my toes. I lowered my head in defeat as I walked towards her to avoid more screaming.

Every summer, my mother would take it upon herself to make sure I received the darkest tan possible. No reason. It was just what she had decided one day.

And every summer she would claim that my excuse of having “fair skin” was something a girl would say. As I appeared before her, I could see that she was squinting hard at a black plastic bottle she was holding at an arm’s length from her face. It was called Tan Amplifier, and it was now being poured by the handful over my entire body.

The viscous oil beaded down my face and was rubbed into my chest. It was originally a liquid but the oil and chemicals had created an expired concoction, like thick Vaseline. The careless application of the lotion left room for grains of sand to work their way into the massage. I began to moan. The amplifying oil shimmered so intensely, my body was beginning to reflect the faces of the other children watching me.

I had turned into a slippery mirror before my mother was finished with me.

I would later find out that the “amplifier” in its name signified its amazing power to generate a tan in gloomy weather.

There was not a cloud in the sky that day.

My older brother Jason was next.

“Jason just take your damn shirt off!” my mother shrieked.

She was furious. My brother was an insecure person. In every possible sense. I would guess it had to do with my mom’s constant berating of him. He had a timid voice and walked with his head down. His shoulders drooped as if he were carrying bags of concrete. It almost looked painful. But he never took his shirt off in public. It was too revealing.

This was a person that showered in the dark.

Jason was startled at her quick bark, but he had known it would come. He looked around to see if anyone had heard her.

“I am. I am,” he murmured.

I walked away while her attention was diverted. It was a beautiful day. Clear. Fragments of bleached shells littered the ecru sand. I could see the dock towards the end of the beach that Manny and I would often jump off. By often, I mean once, and it was because Manny’s brother threw us off. I wanted to try on my own though. And without crying. I hopped on the hot sand as I started to make my way down the beach alone.

“Gregorio! There’s my fuckin bollilo!” a voice rang out.

Awesome. It was Ray. Even better. He was drunk.

He was waving at me with one hand, the other holding a cheap plastic tumbler of beer. Ray was trying to walk through the sand but his sneakers kept getting trapped. Ray Lucindo wore shoes to the beach because he “didn’t know what was in that sand,” implying it was somehow unsanitary.

This notion coming from a man that smoked discarded cigarette butts scattered near the trailer park dumpster.

“Hey Gregorio…listen…” his breath was saturated with the stench of old beer and weed as he spoke, the words oozing from his mouth..

“I need you to go that store and get me a big bottle of Corona. The big one,” he said while gesturing the outline of a woman’s figure as he explained this.  I had no idea what he meant.

“Ray. They won’t sell me beer,” I said with grit.

He was gone though.

I looked behind me and saw Ray standing against a volleyball net. His arms were stretched out and his fingers had weaved themselves into the nylon. He was starting to pull the net down as he sank to the sand. He began to sing.

“Oye Isabelle…don’t listen to the things your mama said…” Ray began singing to himself.

He fell to the sand as the net sprung up.

Ray lay there. His cup was at a tilt, as it dribbled out onto his cut-off denim shorts. His eyes were closed but he was still singing. I watched him try to sit up by reaching up for the net again. This would prove to fail as the left side of the net snapped.

Ray collapsed and the nylon mess fell on top of him. He laid his head back into the sand and closed his eyes.

“So I guess that’s game,” an annoyed voice chirped.

I hadn’t noticed the four guys standing around the net.

People were beginning to take notice. I could hear murmurs in the crowd.

“Is he okay?” “Should we call someone?” I heard in the near distance.

I blended in with the crowd that gathered around to watch. A police officer on a bicycle came riding up the path and jumped off to run and see what the commotion was. Ray was sitting up now as the officer approached.

“Hey buddy, you have a couple drinks today? Can I see your license?” the officer asked.

Ray wouldn’t lift his head.

“No comprende,” he said.

The bilingual officer was getting impatient.

“Tienes una licencia?” the officer asked with an inflection of annoyance.

Ray wasn’t expecting that.

“Yeah yeah. I got it. Hold on,” he said while fumbling through his empty pockets.

Out of nowhere Ray leapt up from the sand like a ninja and started sprinting down the beach. The officer seemed as surprised as we were. It took him a moment to begin running after him.

It didn’t take long to catch him though as Ray had stopped short when one of his soggy Reeboks got stuck in the sand. The officer collided into him like a defensive end. They both fell into the rise of an oncoming wave. They were soaked. The officer was furious as he put Ray’s hands behind his back and handcuffed him.

Ray was winded.

“Fuck you pinche cops!” he shouted.

He looked up at that moment and caught my eye.

No, please don't, I thought.

“Gregorio! Gregorio tell your mommy to pick me up tonight!” he very loudly ordered.

The crowd that had gathered now looked at me.

I acted surprised and looked around to see who he could be talking to.

No one was buying it.

This was most likely due to the fact that Ray was pulling the officer towards me in an attempt to “hug me goodbye”.

Ray had never hugged me in his life.

At least everyone knew I was with him now though. I decided to skip the dock and go tell my mother what had happened. To a normal, sane human being, this would have been, at the very least, a story worth listening to. She stopped me halfway through.

“Well, that’s what he gets,” my mother said with a calmness that made it evident she had been ready to hear this all day.

By the end of the afternoon I think everyone on the beach was aware of our presence. Even if I had tried, it would have been impossible to have gotten lost. All I would need to do was look for the woman screaming at her fully clothed, adult son, or watch for a salmon-colored kayak, half submerged in the ocean.

I would not start to feel the effects of the burn on my body until I was crammed next to the cooler in the back of the car on the drive home and the salt in my fishnet bathing suit had begun to stiffen and itch. My once oily skin was now dry as newspaper and I was beginning to actually glow in the backseat. My skin radiated a red aura as if I were a diner sign.

The drive home in the interstate traffic would not be a pleasant one at all. My mother was pulling out of the parking lot as she grabbed the bottle of lotion from my brother to apply some to her face.

The label had caught her eye.

The sting of the burn was kicking in as I saw her realize the significance of the word “Amplifier” on the bottle.

“Well I guess your mom’s an idiot. I’m sorry sweetie,” she said under her breath.

She sounded concerned but then turned around and smiled at me with the eyes of a toddler.

“Well, just think of the tan that’s gonna turn into sweetie!” she hollered.

I reached behind my seat and tugged at the swollen suitcase my mother had used as a beach bag that day. I removed a heavy winter scarf and laid my head down.