It always happens: A woman sets about lighting the bonfire and
somebody immediately starts singing “Kumbaya.” Sadly, the mood here is
so laid back that nobody smacks the impromptu folksinger. We’re on a
private beach in West Seattle, celebrating the half-birthday of our
host. “I hate that I only get to see all my friends in one place once a
year, so I figured I’d celebrate my birthday twice,” he says.
Nobody’s accusing him of birthday hogging, either, because we all
get a beach party out of it. The sky’s gray, but the rain’s holding
off, and there’s beer, bratwurst, and s’mores enough for everyone. The
menfolk are taking turns swatting golf balls into the ocean. It’s an
incredibly satisfying thing to do, especially since the Fauntleroy
ferry keeps chugging past. “I’m totally going to hit that fucking ferry
this time,” a guy who’s never golfed before says as he tees up. He
misses the ferry, but hits a dinghy, which is a good consolation
prize.
Partiers are tossing footballs back and forth and chatting. I hear
someone say, “The next thing we knew, there were pirates all over the
bathhouse!” but the tantalizing conversation gets lost to the wind. I
catch the half-birthday boy carrying a tray of fresh strawberries
around like a waiter would, and I ask why he’s doing all the work. He
explains, “This way I get to talk to everyone at the party.” It’s the
most copasetic celebration I’ve hit up in a long time, and a perfect
way to start saying goodbye to the short-lived summer of 2007.
Want The Stranger to overhear you tell someone, “You’ll be
blossoming soon, you beautiful little blossoming flower” at your
house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to
partycrasher@thestranger.com.