On a hot July day in 1984, on the 5th Street beach in Ocean City, MD, I had a big problem. The spring before, pre-occupied with graduating from college, I neglected to stay in touch with my local connections and failed to secure housing or touch base with my employer of the previous four summers. The housing issue was taken care of when a close buddy, living year-round in OC with his girlfriend, saw financial gain in offering me a bedroom in their downtown flat. The job question was tougher. Changes had come to English’s Chicken House in my absence, new management was not inclined to bring back college slackers like me, favoring hard working Eastern Shore locals; who could blame them?
Out self-medicating my unemployment blues one night, an amigo recommended I go down to the inlet in the morning and try out for the Beach Patrol. I laughed at the suggestion. Surfers like me viewed OCBP as the enemy, fascists dictating where we could and couldn’t enjoy Mother Ocean. Besides, the red suits they wore came dangerously close to “root suit” status, anathema to all that was beach cool. Yet and still, I needed a job… bad.
Long story short I became an OCBP and actually didn’t mind it so much. My first year I was stationed uptown, where an occasional pull broke the day’s monotony, and checking out an endless parade of bikinis didn’t necessarily suck. Since I had graduated from school, I had nowhere to be in the fall and was able to enjoy gorgeous autumn days of empty beaches, able to sneak surf sessions at my barren post. I actually guarded the final early October day of that season, fully expecting it to be a last hurrah.
Well, life can be funny. After fruitless job searches, including a heartbreaking near miss for a Capital Hill position I thought was in the bag, I decided grad school was the call, and while awaiting acceptance I ended up out in Brekenridge CO for the winter of 84’. By the time April rolled around, snow storms had become very old. GW accepted me, so all seemed in order for one last summer in OC. My buddy said my room was ready, Captain Craig himself, impressed by my longetivity the previous season, personally invited me back to the BP.
Arriving to pick up my gear and crew assignment, which I assumed would be where I was the previous summer, Captain Craig patted me on the back and exclaimed he had done me a big favor, instead of having to ride my bike uptown every morning, I would be at 5th street, right up the road from my place. This was a disaster! Downtown was hell, everybody knew it. Only fanatics or unfortunate newbies got posted there. Instead of bikinis, there were jeans with wallets on chains. Steady and predictable sets of waves were replaced by nasty rips and north currents, punctuated by menacing rock jetties. Downtown you earned every dime of the $423 biweekly take home!
Fifth street did indeed turn out to be a far harder day’s work. Instead of an occasional pull, rough days had you in the water constantly. Strong north currents would have clueless swimmers heading toward the jetty as soon as their feet left the bottom. I sprained my ankle playing basketball, which created constant discomfort. But to my eyes the worst part of the downtown posting was the “beer checks”… having to jog about ordering beachgoers to get rid of their beers. I hated nothing worse, and essentially refused to do it, which may have gotten around the grapevine as my beach seemed to have more drinkers than most. At least that’s what Captain Schoepf, Craig’s right hand with a strong bent toward law and order, was yelling at me that July afternoon from his Jeep at the bottom of my stand!
“Carey,” he roared in his best Marine, “your beach is a disgrace; it looks like some kind of rock concert!” I told him my first priority was the water, which he didn’t buy. “Look back there at the boardwalk,” he barked. “They’re having a party on your beach, God dammit! Get the hell down from there and go tell them to get rid of the beer!!” Turning to see who he was referring to I noticed roughly fifteen members of a motorcycle gang, surely an inspiration for Sons of Anarchy. All had open cans of Budweiser which they made zero effort to conceal. “Get your ass over there son, this isn’t a damn keg party. We’ll watch your stand. Get going…now!”
Walking dejectedly toward the group, the leader looked to be out of Hollywood casting. Tatted and ripped, he was who you cross the street quickly to avoid. Big, mean and slamming brews; diplomacy was on my mind. He seemed amused as I approached; I hoped he would at least hear me out before he started pounding. “Sir,” I stammered, “see that old guy over at the stand?” He nodded his head. “He ordered me over to tell you all to get rid of the beer. Personally, I’d rather have my molars pulled than tell you what to do. But I’d consider it a great favor if, just until he is out of sight, you put the beer away. How about finishing what you have and waiting until he’s gone. I’d sure appreciate it.”
After what seemed like a very long time, Mr. Hell’s Angel smiled and said no problem. I thanked him profusely. Jogging back to my stand I peeked back and saw the whole group heading south on the boardwalk. “There, was that so hard,” an unimpressed Schoepf asked as he put his vehicle into gear. “Control your beach, Carey!”
So what is the point of this missive, other than to partially explain why I look ten years older than I am? Just this: guarding 5th Street was a real responsibility. To me, beer checks were nothing but needless distractions that took my eyes off the water, endangering swimmers, who were clueless to the trouble they could find when the rips were active. Moreover, playing cop wasn’t anything I wanted to do, having a cold one on the beach may have been illegal but… it was the frickin beach!
But here’s the real point… there were more than a hundred guards on the OCBP, and for every one with my view on the subject, there was at least another who loved beer checks, who got off on exerting authority. This was a fact, as confrontations between zealous guards and the drinking public played out all too often, sometimes violently.
Donald Trump has never performed an honest day’s work for compensation; but had he ever sat on a stand for the OCBP, there is little doubt he would have been an avid beer checker, as would most any of his wretched core. ICE is an organization comprised entirely of beer checkers, some more enthusiastic than others. Trump feted them at the White House yesterday, declaring them heroes and, as is his hideous nature, extracting them from the population they are presumably part of while labeling most everyone else the enemy.
Trump bellows constantly that ICE and its participation in whitening America is a winning cause for November. Perhaps the President should be indulged on this issue. Come November, why not simply ask yourself who the beer checkers are on the ballot and whether they deserve a vote. I’m ok with that choice. At the very least it will define who we are… or what we have become. BC