I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

I've come to believe parenting is tantamount to synonymous with is just another word for

going to the beach. I just, but how many times have I loaded a car with towels, a box of

Cheetos and plastic toys? Let's admit, it's cheap fun that goes a long way in the family

memory department. I recently wrote a poem about my adult son and daughter at Long Beach

Island. I was surprised to remember light sand and anesthesia's locks and Langston carrying

a horseshoe crab by its tail. I love watching my children's laughter run into the sea. I loved

their joyous reverie, how they would scrutinize a sand dollar or tangles of seaweed kelp, the

way they would chase a sand piper into seawater foam. Several summers ago, my teenage son,

Romeo and I, lounged on adjacent beach chairs just south of the coastal Grecian city of Napoliol

in the Peloponnese. After nearly two years of online classrooms, I felt he deserved this bit of

joy. We had flown to Athens for my work assignment, but here we were, chilling beneath the sun,

playing hooky. I mean, seriously chilling heart. I was reading the Greek poet Odysseus Elitis and

Romeo and Shades read their eyes were watching God by Zora Neal Hurston and both of us sipping

lemonade. We loved the ritual of easing into the ocean and then returning to our chairs,

reading and reclining together, like glistening on everything around us. But of course, we were not

alone. The beach was crowded with local sun worshippers and tourists alike, families and young

couples, mostly from Greece, and others like us from far flung places, recently released from

the grips of a global pandemic. Several boats mored close by, an aerial shot would have revealed a

thick moustache like crescent of humans at the edge of the Aegean Sea beneath multicolored umbrellas,

tanning on large towels. We were all unwinding at last, but at what cost? Nearby trash receptacles were

overflowing and desperate need of emptying. I suddenly felt so conscious of litter and debris

...