SUNRISE AT THE BEACH

By midday, Jeep Cherokees and Subaru Outbacks fill nearly every parking slot along Beach Avenue. Close to the lapping waves, blue and white striped umbrellas shade nine-month-olds slathered in Aveeno Baby SPF-50. Their parents hover nearby, soaking up the rays while plopped down in low-slung chairs next to Coleman coolers. “It’s freezing,” squeals a teenage girl wearing a hot pink bikini as she steps gingerly into the incoming tide.

Sunrise at the beach is different. It’s quiet, serene, almost spiritual.

I arrive at 5:30, looking for “the trash guys,” two locals who stride Gooch’s Beach every morning — rain or shine, balmy or bitter — collecting soda cans, cigarette butts, crumbled paper plates and “whatever people leave here.” They carry five-gallon buckets and gather garbage with long-handled pickers. They’ve been spotlighted on Maine television stations, are greeted near-daily by fellow-beach-walker President George W. Bush, and I’m writing an article about them. 

There are only 10 people on the beach as I walk towards the jetty. I pass a lone strider deep in thought, then five seriously-fit 40-year-old blondes clad in Athleta and chattering softly, then a couple throwing a ball into the waves and watching their yellow Lab streak into the ocean to get it. One older woman walks the entire beach backwards. Some people are barefoot, others wear sand shoes.

Everyone knows each other.  “Hi Dave!” “Great morning, hey?” “How’s the knee doing?”  “Didja see the Sox game last night?” 

I watch a father and son standing knee-deep in the 65-degree ocean. They are the only swimmers in this half-mile stretch of sand. They inch forward slowly, slowly, before finally leaping into the waves, shrieking as they fully immerse. 

A woman named Carol tells me, “I come here every morning year-round. We don’t know any one’s last name. We just know their first name and their dog’s name. But it’s very friendly.”

I finally spot the trash guys, Roscoe and Dave, toting their buckets and pickers. We stroll slowly along the water’s edge, giving me time to take notes. Roscoe picks up one lone plastic sandal and announces, “I’ll put it on the sea wall. If it’s there three days from now, it’s trash.” 

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Dave says as George W. Bush comes toward them and asks, “How’re you doing, guys? What’s in the buckets today?” Three unsmiling Secret Service agents hover close. The “trash guys” and “W” banter for a while (“Didja hear I shot 74 on my 75th?” he asks), then we continue our walk-talk.

An hour later 50 people and countless dogs are on the beach. Poodles romp with retrievers, Shih Tzus dart around terriers. The blush of early dawn yields to a strong sun rising over the grey water, and I sense how special the beach is at sunrise. 

Plus, you meet some very interesting people there.