Packing for the beach used to be simple. Our RV is actually a rolling apartment on wheels. Forget a chair? Walk three feet. Need snacks? Open the fridge. But now, (for the weekend only) trading in the land yacht for the more nimble—but not nearly as forgiving—Jeep, meant some executive decisions needed made. Do we bring the second cooler? The backup fan? The Yeti backpack? Suddenly, you’re playing beach-day Tetris in the driveway, trying to squeeze 40 pounds of gear into a two-pound trunk. By the time we got everything jammed into the Jeep, hats on top, chairs wedged in like puzzle pieces, tennis balls on our canopy supports hanging off the edge, we looked like a rolling REI clearance sale.
But somehow, miraculously, we made it. Rehoboth Beach was in sight. Cue the sunshine and surf. Enter the sand: a glorious, umbrella-covered landscape as far as the eye could see. Seriously, the only thing more consistent than the sand was the sea of beach umbrellas. It was like a UN of colors had gathered for a summit. But we had a secret weapon: the trusty family canopy. Spacious. Comfortable. Sturdy. Shade deluxe. Assembled efficiently with the experience of professional beach goers. That is, until the Lifeguard Fun Patrol marched over and rained on our beachfront parade. “Canopies are not allowed. Umbrellas only. Didn’t you read the sign?” Of course not—we were too busy hauling 82 pounds of gear and sunscreen across sand reflecting the 93 degree temperatures and melting our sandals.
I was kind of defiant, but our lawyer son advised me to calm down and said we should pack up to avoid extraordinary fines. Exercising a great deal of passive aggressivity, we took our time breaking camp. Apparently, the beach has become a No Fun Zone, where someone on the local council probably owns the umbrella rental monopoly. Capitalism and government regulations doing the tango right there in the sand. Our poor canopy didn’t even get to see lunchtime. But every disappointment is just an opportunity in disguise—at least that’s what Zoltar told me. You know Zoltar, the animatronic wizard on the boardwalk? I asked him for wisdom, and he basically said, “Ice cream’s in your future.” Honestly, I’ve heard worse advice from real people.
So we did the boardwalk thing: ice cream in hand, soaking up the sights, and dodging sugar-crazed kids on scooters. We wandered into the Purple Parrot, where the wallpaper was… money. Literally. Every square inch was covered in dollar bills with scribbled names and messages. Talk about inflation. No beach trip is complete without the traditional pilgrimage to one of the many antique and collectible emporiums. Known locally as the “Ocean Gallery,” known to me in particular as “the junk store.” There, among faded lighthouse paintings and enough nautical knick-knacks to start a pirate-themed Airbnb, we found somebody’s treasures—or at least something quirky enough to make us laugh.
That evening we were treated to a great meal by Claire and Christian and then a relaxing nightcap and cigar (although Chris and Claire declined) on the back deck of Claire’s parents’ beach getaway, which they so graciously opened to us for the weekend. The trip wrapped up the next morning with breakfast at Café Pink Blossom, where the coffee was hot and the memories were fresh. Christian and Claire are always up for fun and laughs, even with the beachside bureaucracy. Sure, we might’ve lost our shade, but we gained a whole lot of laughs—and isn’t that the best kind of souvenir? Rehoboth may have rules, but it still can’t stop us from making memories. Just don’t forget to pack an umbrella. Or a lawyer.
