THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, July 3, 1995 TAG: 9507030126
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY TOM HOLDEN, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 146 lines
From the mountains and the cities, they are pulled to the sea, to home really, a legion of people drawn to the sandy carpet of Virginia Beach.
Down the highways, through tree-lined neighborhoods, on blustery days and cloudless blue beauties, they come to stand oceanside and stare out at the faint line where sky meets sea.
On this day before America's midsummer holiday, there is a chance to pause and think about what it means to live free. And what better place to do that than along the strand on a leisurely weekend.
Somewhere out there are jobs and endless worries, enemies, wars and threats of trouble at home. But here, now, the Americans who arrive in minivans and Jeeps, compact cars and boxy campers are happy to rub shoulders with strangers and play untroubled in the Atlantic.
Why does it seem that spending this weekend by the sea is the perfect antidote to life's worries?
Here they are standing by the surf, tall ones, fat ones, thin ones, round ones. The young and old alike, half-naked under the summer sun, breathing salty sea air as they do each year around Independence Day.
There is purpose to this annual migration. Some jog with muscular determination, intent on the elusive goal of permanent fitness. Others drag their feet in the green brine and linger over casual conversations about friends, relations, life.
Away from the surf, three young men languish on beach towels, their hair slicked back, plastic bottles of suntan lotion half-buried in the sand. Music thumps from a boom box. A grouchy rock star complains about being lonely. But the men are happy, a part of the crowd, secretly casting glances at the women who walk by.
Not far away, four people lie stretched out on a yellow-and-black checkered blanket, cheek to jowl, sipping cold beer hidden beneath foam insulation. Their music is more subdued, filled with weeping steel guitars and tales of broken romance. A woman sits up and stubs a cigarette into the sand, as if it were her private ashtray.
Children work the sand with plastic pails and tiny red shovels, sifting and digging, pouring mounds of sand that waves gently wash away.
They run to the water. They run away. They run back to the waves and away again, an innocent game of chase. Their parents keep a watchful eye while idly turning the pages of magazines fat with pictures.
They are all here, young men and young women, children and parents, the elderly, the athletic, playing by the sea in a refuge from the frantic pace of American life. They're your neighbors, your friends and people you've never met from places you've only heard about.
On the other side of the strand, where Atlantic Avenue hums with traffic, a child walks with an ice cream cone, her shirt a mottled gray where cream and sand mingle along the collar. Her mother holds a bag of gifts and window shops for sunglasses molded into every imaginable shape and size.
``Mom, I want to go home,'' the girl says.
``Honey, we're almost there.'' [the following text appeared on page A10]
Along the Boardwalk, where sand meets the city, the people have come once again to soak up the sun as Independence Day approaches.
The great expanse of beach that stretches north and south plays host to the annual party, rain or shine, on cloudy days and hazy, muggy afternoons.
Each year it is the same. A multitude of Americans descending to our water's edge in their annual rite, celebrating freedom at a place as elemental as life itself - the sea.
This year, the beach awaits with new civic gifts that bring a level of polish to the aging waterfront unheard of a few years ago.
Along the stub streets that divide the Boardwalk and Atlantic Avenue, playful sculptures smile upon visitors: a school of fish swimming through sea grass, a trio of pelicans lumbering along, a giant crab slinking under its cement shell. Visitors trod upon bricks of blue, red and cream - patriotic to match the season - laid in swirling patterns that meander lazily along. Across these bricks come families and friends, lugging the essentials of beach life.
They make camp with coolers, umbrellas, magazines, and plastic buckets and shovels for children lucky enough to play here. They spread out their towels and relax.
But some are too energetic to lie around. They play volleyball. They swim. They run and jump though the sea foam like playful birds.
Their play is inventive. When the waves are up, the boogie boards come out. So do the rubber rafts, water wings, surfboards and jet skis, wind sails, scuba masks and beach balls - all in one relentless push to stay cool on a hot day.
When tired of the water, some make their way back to the Boardwalk - the resort's pedestrian highway. Here all manner of people hustle along on 18-gear bicycles and simple beach cruisers, Roller-blades and skateboards. Each one seems to push harder, move faster, in a drive to get closer - but to where?
They go on, perhaps stopping by the new carousel, topped with a festive orange-and-red roof. Children cling to the plastic manes of rollicking horses while their parents stand by watchfully.
From the shore, they look toward the fishing pier, watching the anglers lean over a wooden railing, staring intently into the green waters. It is an age-old perch; their hope is a fishing line snapping with croaker, sea bass or flounder.
From the wooden deck of the pier, the fishermen can see a young couple in beach chairs, their feet buried in the brown sand, their chairs facing the surf, a radio at their side. She leans forward while he smears white lotion on her back, a moment of intimacy for all to see.
A young man strolls by. His biceps are thick. Veins surface and then burrow deep in his muscles. He seems almost a walking metaphor of a vibrant, overactive culture, pushing and driving toward greater glory, believing only that glory is the best reward.
Overhead, a string of pelicans drifts lazily through the murky sky, silently staring down at the people, at hotels that are square and boxy like packages of cereal. A laughing gull atop a light pole taunts the big birds to stay away. But if they notice, it is hard to tell. ILLUSTRATION: [color photo appears on p.A1 and wraps around to p.A10]
Color coastline [wrap around] photo by Motoya Nakamura<
[color aerial photo of Virginia Beach coastline]
[These photos appear on p.A10]
B\W file photos
The old Princess Anne Hotel was a big tourist draw around the turn
of the century. A glass-enclosed veranda was added in 1887 and
1888.
From the 1920s: a lifeguard with bathing beauties, left.
Cottage-style hotels once lined the beach, left. They have been
replaced by high-rise structures along the Boardwalk.
Color staff photos by Lawrence Jackson
Much to his delight, Adam Strohbeck, 7, gets buried by his father,
Mark, on Sunday. Adam's parents were delighted, too: It's much
easier to keep an eye on him when he's stationary.
Above, a private moment on public beach, a common sight during the
summer.
Keep away from the water! Stephanie Allen, tries to elude the surf,
Left, she and her mom, Deborah, are on vacation from Cleveland.
How we shot the photo
Color photo by Alex Burrows
[Photo of Motoya Nakamura in helicopter taking photo]
[Explanation of how photo was shot]
[Text not available]
KEYWORDS: AERIAL PHOTO WRAP AROUND PHOTO VIRGINIA BEACH by CNB