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After a few hours and numerous wrong turns we found what we wanted, a mile-long stretch of beach with no houses or people in sight. We packed our meager supply of possessions to the sand, rounded up enough driftwood for a fire and made a small camp.
We stayed up late, sipping beer and telling lies, then curled up in our blankets next to the dying embers, using our bell bottom pants for pillows. The next morning would bring a wake up call unlike any in the history of man.
Talking of it later, we didn’t know for sure if it was the fierce itching or the 50 Japanese voices counting some kind of cadence that woke us up. As we groggily rubbed our eyes and sat up, already scratching furiously, we discovered that we were in the middle of a circle of several dozen men and women wearing matching red and black sweat-suits, doing jumping jacks.
This was obviously the opportunity of a lifetime for them, finding two Gaijins (Japanese word for “outside person”) snoozing on their exercise beach. Most of them were smiling as they bellowed out their counts, but several were giving us the evil eye.
As disconcerting as this whole episode was, it soon became secondary to the infernal itching our whole bodies suffered. I was from North Idaho and my buddy was from Iowa, so we knew nothing about sand fleas living by the ocean.
They knew plenty about us though, mainly that as well as being dumb, we were right tasty.
There were too many itches to fight at one time, and our bodies were covered with red welts from top to bottom. We jumped up and ran toward the only chance of relief we had, the ocean, where we dove in and started stripping off our clothes.
The circle of exercisers was now a half moon pointed our way, and they seemed to take great pleasure in our red spotted white skin and futile attempts to scratch every itch. Even handfuls of sand scrubbed all over our bodies did nothing except make the white spots between bites turn pink.
Any enthusiasm we had for further adventures that day died on the beach, so we miserably washed our stuff free of fleas and headed home. We were the butt of every itch joke ever told for weeks, or at least until someone else did something stupid.
Itching is no joke to lots of people, or at least their own itch isn’t, and its definition has not been improved since 1660; “An unpleasant sensation that provokes the desire to scratch.”
For centuries scientists thought itching was just a mild form of pain. It wasn’t until the 1980s that researchers determined that there is itching and there is pain, but they are separate things.
Of course, if you scratch an itch so hard that you gouge meat out of yourself, pain joins in. A surgeon reported that one woman was so tormented by an itchy scalp that would not go away, she one night in her sleep scratched through her skull and into her brain.
I have recently been cursed by an infernal itching that moves everywhere from my toes to the top of my head, in random order. Benedryl helps and some ointments help, but nothing makes it totally go away. My shin bones are the worst, and they look like I was attacked by a rabid weasel. Since then I have lightened up on the scratching, but even though I know you only make it worse by scratching, I can’t stop.
There is an International Forum for the Study of Itch, founded by Dr. Gil Yosipovitch, who is known as “The Godfather of Itch.” Even with all the studies they conduct, much about itching remains a mystery.
While there are thousands of things that can cause an itch, from bugs to allergens to internal diseases to chemicals, and on and on, there is not a particular drug aimed toward doing away with the itch. Japan thinks they have one to reduce it, but they admit it won’t end it.
The oddest thing about itches is that watching somebody scratch, listening to somebody talk about itching or reading about itches is enough to make a person start scratching.
Dr. Yosipovitch conducted a seminar where a person suffering from constant itching sat up on stage, scratching while they talked. About 60-percent of the audience started scratching themselves.
Contagious yawning is a similar phenomenon, said to be caused by mirror neurons, whatever they are. Even apes have been seen to indulge in contagious scratching and yawning.
Scratching in public is usually not a good way to endear yourself to strangers, who automatically assume you have cooties. If you just have to scratch and you get one of those “you lowlife” looks from an onlooker, tell them they have a tick on their neck.
That brings to mind a scene from an old black and white movie from the 30s. I can’t remember the name of the movie, but one line has stayed with me.
A grubby little street urchin is standing outside a wrought iron fence, peering wistfully at the manicured grounds while idly scratching himself all over. A snobby fellow in a top hat walks by and makes a rude comment about the unseemly scratching.
The dirty-cheeked scamp looks up at him, still digging at his bony ribs, and says in his wee voice, “Well, if ya scratch ya gotta itch, doncha Mister?”
Hope you all have your back scratchers handy.