Summer in the Mid-Atlantic is a languorous business. By early June, warmth is a constant of daily life, and even in the comfort of your climate-controlled apartment or rowhome, you roll out of bed and feel the season all around you. You step out the front door, and there it is! - the entire Chesapeake Bay is sitting over your head and waiting for you to make your next move. For many denizens of the region, the next move is to gradually translocate oneself down the sidewalk, jettisoning various atoms and other non-essential parts on the pavement as necessary. One proceeds like this the entire week, until the swelter of the sun, the sweat off your brow, and the promise of sunset after 8 PM cumulate in a picnic table, a bucket of icy beverage, and a pile of spicy seasoned crabs, ripe for the picking. The Chesapeake Bay was sitting over your head, so you invited it over for dinner.
Many denizens of the region also confront the summer head on. From all over, they converge on the Bay and then across the Bay Bridge, hearing the siren song of beach towns and Atlantic Ocean boardwalks on the other end of the Delmarva (Delaware-Maryland-Virginia) Peninsula. So it is with me and Jane, as we scheduled ourselves a Sunday-to-Tuesday vacation down to Annapolis and across to Ocean City, MD. Our first time to the Eastern Shore, and not a moment too soon.
We arrived in Annapolis early on Sunday morning, and spent the morning walking around the Old Town, waiting for hunger to set in. We were on the lawn of St. Mary's Church when the bells began pealing in this most Catholic of Catholic American cities. Down by the water after brunch at Iron Rooster, we browsed a weekend farmer's market and watched the boats cruising past Ego Alley. Afterward, we stopped by the beach at Sandy Point Park, which was packed to its brim with sunbathers and beach umbrellas; I took photos of the Bay Bridge while Jane soaked her feet.
We then headed across the bridge and across the peninsula, a country music countdown blaring from our car radio for most of the two-hour drive to Ocean City. Crossing the last highway bridge into town, both of us, never having before visited an Atlantic beach town, stared dumbfounded at what we saw - a glimmering Las Vegas skyline slapped onto a barrier island, surf pounding and parasails gliding against the afternoon sun.
We settled into our home for the next two nights, a balcony room at the adequately named Sun 'n Fun Motel, one block away from the beach and one block away from the Jolly Roger amusement park. The entire place was reminiscent of Santa Monica, with its vaunted ferris wheel and endless boardwalk. After a nap, we walked across the street, past the towering beachfront resorts and over the sand dunes. We laid a towel out as the sun set behind us; I took photos of the sea while Jane built a little sand-castle in the waning light.
The next day was spent entirely at the Jolly Roger - the water park in the morning, and the amusement park at night. Rocketing out of a water slide aboard her raft, Jane nicked her heel against the opposite bank of the lazy river. I took her, trailing tiny bloody heel-prints, to the first aid station to get a bandage which promptly fell off halfway down the next slide. Suffice it to say that conventional adhesives and a venue predicated on rapidly flowing water are not a good fit for one another.
That night, after a rather blasé dinner (food was an issue throughout the trip; the prototypical Atlantic beach town seems to be built on deep fryers and microwavable pasta. We survived by dint of a midnight convenience store run to buy fruit, tea, and yogurt), we returned to the Jolly Roger and shared a bumper car, sunset on the ferris wheel (Jane: "Would you look at us? Having a damn date night!"), and several thrill rides culminating in a night-ending spin on the Spider, a hex-axial, high-velocity, free-spinning contraption (pictured above) which filled us with pure, atavistic terror. I have a grainy video of this ride. It mostly consists of a still image of our four feet, coupled with two minutes of bone-chilling screaming (me) and "no no no no no no" (Jane).
The next day, before heading home, we drove across the bridge to Assateague Island, a barrier island covered with tidal marsh, campgrounds, and a glittering seashore. Even in the early morning light, the breeze off the ocean was hot as we walked down the beach in search of the island's famous herd of wild horses - Jane carrying a box of breakfast donuts in one hand, her sandals in the other. Half a mile away, we came upon a family of horses; they stumbled out of a campsite as if they had just awoken and crawled out of one of the RVs or tents stationed there. We watched as they hobbled halfway to the water and drunkenly collapsed in the sand - whether they were basking in or cursing at the warm June sun was not immediately apparent. Feeling much the same, we retreated to our car, bought drinks at the visitor center, and drove back to Baltimore by noon. That evening, an absolutely torrential downpour blanketed the city - the entire Chesapeake finally crashing down, washing away the summer heat. We were more than grateful.
