In the carefree days of August before the Weather Bureau's farthest outpost had looked into the malicious eye of Connie the Hurricane and sent out a warning cry, it was a time to escape from the withering heat. At the edge of the timeless, tumbling sea, armies of vacationers and weekenders raised their gaudy umbrellas in a salute to the sun and then planted themselves in the sand just outside the puddle of shade they had thus created. At no other time, in no other place would they so cheerfully endure the close, sweltering crowds, the painful burns, the sand that seeped in seam and sandwich. Such is the summer ritual at the edge of the sea. The special enchantment that it holds for one and all is captured by the color camera on the following pages.
Here on the ocean's shaggy mane is room for all. Poet and peasant, banker and candlestick maker, join the joyous ceremony of being buffeted in the glorious razzle-dazzle of the billowing surf.
What illimitable wonders and what fabulous treasures lie hidden in the deep recesses of the ocean floor?
All the summer day long, in the whirling spume and the hurtling wave, a bit of the sea's endless drama and its way is unfolded.
On the shining strand, with the tumbling laughter of the wild sea water playing through her dreams, a sand-flecked young girl drowses in the long sleepy August afternoon.
Near that magical line of the beach where the white shells tinkle in the last whisper of the spent wave, children build their moated castles, already doomed by the rising tide, to be rebuilt tomorrow.
The rising evening breeze blows cold from the sea and a picnicker warms himself at the bustling beach fire.