There is no

better time to go to the beach than spring break.

That first swim of the

season is like a ritual cleansing, washing away the

winter blahs and coating the skin with a salty film that

rejuvenates the mind and the soul. But the real reason I

go the beach is to party.

Since that first spring

break trip to the Florida shores in college, I have

religiously made the trek to the Atlantic or Gulf to pay

homage to King Neptune in April. In some ways, nothing

has changed since the 1970s when I drove to Daytona Beach

with my college pal Donna Ladinig to celebrate the rites

of spring.

Back then, I drove a Chevy

Malibu station wagon minus hubcaps. Today, I drive a Ford

Escort wagon minus hubcaps. My suitcase was packed with

two teeny bikinis, Coppertone Oil with zero sunscreen,

halter tops and tee shirts and cut off jeans. This time,

my pull-along pilot bag is stuffed with one

"slimsuit" and one of those numbers with the

bathing suit top and built-in shorts, tee shirts and

cutoffs and Lancome age-defying sunscreen with SPF 40

plus.

Back in the day, the cooler

was chock full of Cokes, Buds and juice. Today, the

cooler still has its Cokes and Buds, plus juice boxes,

GoGhurts, cheese sticks, milk, and an assorted layer of

real foods like peanut butter and jelly, sliced turkey,

bread, bologna, etc. - just enough to get me and

three kids from home to the first rest stop.

Instead of Allman Brothers

eight-tracks, we have Less Than Jake and Britney Spears

CD's. And of course, it takes at least two hours longer

to get to point B from point A with the young passenger

load and the need to adjust the junk bungee-corded to the

roof of the car every 20 miles or so. That has got to be

the biggest difference between then and now - the

car ride.

Donna and I cruised along

at 65, singing, smoking cigarettes and stopping

occasionally to try free Peach wine at a roadside stand

or buy tacky souvenirs at Stuckey's. This impending

journey to the beach with my loved ones forced me into

training two months ago.

Weight lifting has

toughened up my upper body, allowing me to hoist

adolescents into the back seat when found dawdling beside

the car. Push-ups have strengthened my back to withstand

the repetitive seat kicks from the rear. I have new

glasses to scan the map and an upgraded prescription to

temper my urge to emit primal screams after the first 50

miles.

Daily jogs have improved my

circulation, allowing me to stay strapped in the driver's

seat for at least two hours at a time, or a bathroom

break, whichever comes first. I have purchased new

crayons, reams of paper, ear phones for personal CD

players, and enough junk food to stock a Quickie Mart. I

am ready.

When we finally hit the

beach, it will seem like 20 something years ago. Warm

aqua water, blue sky, bright sun and hot sand. The only

difference will be that the guys I used to scope out now

look amazingly like my son.

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