We Live Where We Are

Japanamericanada Day

The taxi driver took us to the wrong beach. Whether it was on purpose or a simple miscommunication, it's hard to say. He dropped us off at a place called Gaijinhama, or Foreigner's Beach, so he was either having a joke at our expense or honestly thought, "oh, gaijin, they must want to go to the gaijin beach, not the beach in the directions they gave me."

We were planning on meeting a group of people, mostly people we didn't and still don't know, for Canada Day. Our group of eight friends decided to go up early and have our own celebration, Japanamericanada Day, before anyone else arrived. So, we thought we were at the right place. No one thought to ask the locals, who watched us with curiousity from their nylon tents, the men with their shirts off, tanned, a few women wearing ridiculously large sun bonnets and white gloves.

We layed out our tarps and food: peanut sesame noodles, potato salad, fruit salad, salad salad, sandwiches, hummus, Doritos, Oreos, and a few lukewarm cans of Dad's rootbeer. Together, in the tradition of our fathers and grandfathers and forefathers, we ate our way back to the memory of independance, a kind of food lust for freedom, reminding us of the bountiful cornucopia we have in North America (hey Mexico, shushh, not a word).

We threw frisbee. Explored a small cave that would soon be underwater, herds of insects swarming out from the cracks for high ground. The women chatted and made sure everyone was wearing sunscreen. A cool wind skipping up off the water. Hot sand. Chris and I swam out to a tsunami-breaker about fifty yards offshore. It looked like someone had dumped a whole childhood worth of oversized concrete jumping jacks into the ocean.

Around four o'clock we realized we were at the wrong beach. Our contact wasn't returning our calls. What to do. Someone grabbed a giant piece of bamboo, six inches thick, and we decided to play baseball. Our ball? A plastic bottle full of seaweed and briny water. Canadian flags for bases. We hefted the bat over our shoulders with a wide grip and swung mightily. One loose hand let it slip and almost impaled a mom and her kids on a beachtowel nearby. That'll learn 'em. Homeruns were hit and slides into second became wetter with the high tide encroaching on the infield. We played for nearly two hours, a fitting substitute for the Independance Day requirement of leaving a beat-up AM radio tuned to a staticky ball game.

We got to building a fire, got as far as digging the hole and collecting the wood, when our contact called, told us we were a fifteen minute walk from where the real party was. There was some debate as to whether it would be worth going or not, but the allure of a proper bonfire and bbq won out. We took our bamboo bat with us, which, along with a few other sticks, had been fashioned into a rocket launcher for the night's fireworks.

The party was in conversation cluster mode when we arrived and we soon fell in with the handfull of people there that we actually knew. When we got bored Andy and I took inventory of the fireworks, seperating the bottlerockets and mortars from the sparklers and roman candles. Ashton attached a Canadian flag to our makeshift rocket launcher. Andy manned the lighter and I took the pictures, getting long-exposure shots of the sparkler drawing madness that quickly ensued. I avoided the guitar circle, not because I didn't want to play, but because they were playing campfire singalongs and all I know are murder ballads and sad hymns.

When the fireworks ran out we called the taxis to come pick us up. We were sunburned, with sand stuck to our legs and beach hair that stood in dry and salty curls. We were quieter. Carrying bags of trash and plasticware. With the workweek looming overhead our day of freedom closed in the backseats of cabs, the bonfire and dark ocean falling away as we sped toward the city glow.