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We vacation from news, but we can't get far

By SUE CARLTON
Published October 4, 2006

You are on vacation in a Florida beach town, just far enough away from the place you call home.

It's early on a weekday morning, about the time you would normally be rushing out your front door, juggling papers and spilling caffeine.

Instead you are sitting on a beach chair, the white sand still night-cool under your bare feet. Your attention is divided between the pelicans dive-bombing the gulf in search of breakfast and the morning paper in your hands.

There you read that Tampa has officially been nixed as the Republicans' party town for 2008. We were jilted for Minneapolis-St. Paul and the likes of Lake Wobegon, the story says. Someone even mentioned our scary threat of hurricanes.

This seems laughable under these blue skies, with terns calling overhead and dolphins cresting out beyond the waves.

Still, you find yourself clicking on the old beach house TV to check the Weather Channel again and again. Supposedly you're looking to see if tomorrow looks better for kayaking or fishing. But what you're really listening for you don't hear.

The chirpy weather person does not say "brewing off the coast" or "named storm" or "forecast track." She does not tell you to "keep an eye" on a "developing system" nearby. For this you are grateful, because of your too-short vacation and because of the vulnerable hometown you left behind.

Only two more months of crossing your fingers.

You're downing shrimp in a beachside pub when a breaking news story flashes on the TV over the bar.

A Polk County sheriff's deputy and his canine partner have been shot dead. Another deputy is wounded.

When you first see this, the shooter has not yet been caught. But you wonder if he won't be dead soon, too.

The bar goes quiet. Somebody says damn shame. Nothing could seem sadder or more pointless. A police officer is gone, and his good dog, too.

Out on the long fishing pier, they are not talking much about the news. They are squinting at the sun and opining about ladyfish and why the snook won't bite and if this dang Red Tide plans to hang around forever.

That night, a good storm rolls through and washes everything clean.

Early one morning, you are riding an old beach bike past the cluster of newspaper boxes at the center of the little town. You are intent on the pastry you can already smell baking at the market up the street. But a headline makes you hit your rusty brakes.

Lawmaker quits amid scandal, it says.

U.S. Rep. Mark Foley, a South Florida Republican, reportedly sent suggestive e-mails to former pages, it says.

You fish out change and buy the paper. Your mind goes running. Imagine, Foley, star in the Republican Party, caught up in allegations this lewd, this creepy.

How can Republicans dodge the fallout? Will they dump him like cheap Christmas trash?

And what about the Democrats? Can they manage to keep a straight face? Can they resist doing the Snoopy Dance all over town, given the seriousness of the allegations?

Could it possibly get any uglier for Foley? Well, yes, it would turn out.

But right now you want to know more about what will surely become a Godzilla of a story. You read on and wonder if more teenagers were involved, if law enforcement is sniffing around yet.

For the first time all week, you suddenly itch for access to the Internet and the ability to e-mail. God help you, you even want to find Rush Limbaugh pontificating out there somewhere. What could even someone so sure and sanctimonious possibly make out of this mess?

But then it gets close to lunchtime, and you start thinking about crab cakes. There is this really excellent place on the water, and the tourists haven't descended yet. Crab cakes become your afternoon's goal.

And then it's over. You check your crumpled pink tickets and, no, you did not win the Lotto. And, yes, you have to go home.

You stagger inside your house under the weight of your sandy bags and beach chairs. You see that the cat has been sick and the AC has died. The house is as dry and stifling as Tucson in June.

There are 30-something messages waiting for you, the first of which starts out, "Have you heard this Foley stuff?" You are home.

Sue Carlton can be reached at carlton@sptimes.com.

[Last modified October 4, 2006, 00:14:51]