The seasonal preppy transition

"For it's a long, long while
From May to December;
And the days grow short
When you reach September..."
   —from September Song by Maxwell Anderson

I play Sarah Vaughan's recording of this song every year right after Labor Day, as I lament the passing of another summer. I spent this past holiday weekend at my beloved Wrightsville for one last summer weekend of revelry, drinking copious amounts of spirituous beverages and staying up into the wee hours dancing the night away or watching mindless movies and TV shows.

The play-by-play: On Friday night, after a long drive through stop-and-go RTP traffic, we hit 22 North for a few rounds, always our first stop, and then pounded a few more at King Neptune's pirate bar across the street. We capped off the evening with a Vito's pizza in front of the TV. After a Saturday afternoon of getting hammered on the beach (with lunch from Trolley Stop, of course), we dined at 22 North, hung out at the pirate bar again, and then got snockered on fish bowls at Red Dogs, dancing and drinking until they shut down at 2AM, and bucked the drunken throngs to grab another pizza, which we scarfed down drunk while watching Puss in Boots. Due to scattered storms we didn't get on the beach on Sunday, but we did wander down to Robert's Market to grab their awesome chicken salad and pimento cheese for sandwiches, stopping for Kohl's frozen custard on the way back. On Sunday night we grilled a steak and stayed up until 3AM chugging cocktails and watching Cherry Falls, then a TV show about doomsday preppers, and then Fright Night after that. We slept late Monday, got more custard at Kohl's, and only got an hour on the beach before driving home in torrential rain storms and heavy traffic.

It's always a mildly melancholy time when we depart the family beach house on the afternoon of the first Monday in September and bid good-bye to lazy days on the beach, late evening sunsets, traipsing about in shorts and bare feet in the beach house, and Bloody Marys on the deck at Dockside. Though we plan on returning in October, now is the time of year I dolefully put away the trappings and accoutrements of summer: the canvas beach bag, stuffed with gaily-colored towels, visors, flip-flops, cheap spare sunglasses, and miscellaneous bottles of sunscreen; my swim trunks (to be taken out again the next time I stay in a hotel); my khaki shorts that I wear everywhere; and my cherished preppy regalia, such as my cheerful belts with stripes and nautical motifs, my airy seersucker shirts, and my faded canvas deck shoes. These shall rest in my closet until next May, where, whenever I reach for a flannel shirt or a tweed jacket, they'll remind me of the carefree gaiety of summer weekends at the beach while I'm freezing my nards off in February.

The mood isn't entirely mournful. This is, after all, a time of transition. I have much to look forward to in the coming months: two friends' weddings, where I will no doubt steal the spotlight in my Scottish evening dress; the annual Renaissance Festival; possibly hosting a Thanksgiving meal once again in my city house; and of course breaking out my fall and winter wardrobe. Time once again for Oxford cloth shirts at the office, rugby shirts for knocking around the house or casual weekend activities, canvas shirts and Bean Boots for visits to the dog park, and checked twill shirts for those weekend engagements that call for a neater appearance, such as visiting relatives or a fine dinner out. The time is nigh for my treasured Barbour jacket to reappear. The Clark's brown leather ankle boots will see regular use, as will my new pair of brown loafers (which I consider a year-round shoe, anyway). Sometime soon I also hope to acquire a pair of Blucher moccasins, which strike a perfect balance between carefree boat shoes and somber Blucher shoes. As the temperatures drop, I'll dig out my chunky cotton sweaters, my soft chamois shirts (on weekends), and hope to get an opportunity to wear my recently-purchased vintage L.L. Bean Norwegian sweater, the hallmark of preppies all over the east coast from the late '60s to the early '90s. It's been recently resurrected from the L.L. Bean archives and retails for about $130, but I snagged my barely-used vintage model on eBay for 28 bucks. Believe me, I am very tempted to put together a real-life version of "Prep Persona #3" from The Official Preppy Handbook (1980), which involved the aforementioned sweater layered over an Oxford cloth shirt and a popped-collar polo shirt, topped with a puffy vest, paired with wide-wale corduroy trousers, and finished with a pair of Bean's rubber moccasins (no socks, of course).

Although I am excited about unearthing my fall wardrobe, I will nonetheless miss my preppy summer wardrobe and accessories. Preppiness and summer go hand-in-hand; all summer long, I went about town looking as if I had just stepped off a boat. My most recent acquisition, L.L. Bean's Boat & Tote bag, made in Maine of thick, sturdy canvas, is a badge of membership in Club Prep, and for use on the beach, it must have blue trim, whereas trips to "the countr y" call for bags with green or other earth-colored trim. For that extra preppy touch, it ought to be monogrammed in threads that match the colored trim. However, for women, something bright and fun by Vera Bradley or possibly Lily Pulitzer is an alternative worthy of consideration. I noticed micro-expressions of approval from other people of quality in the courtyard at the condo as they recognized my bag, which coordinated perfectly with my blue soft-sided cooler, royal blue swim trunks, and pale blue polo shirt. Various shades of blue and white are the de rigeur colors for seaside accessories, though pale pinks and pale greens are a fun way to mix it up. Yellow and orange can be hard to pull off tastefully, and red just looks plain wrong. One must use good taste when selecting towels. Classic cabana stripe towels (wide alternating stripes of a single color and white) are the timeless choice. Other preppy beach-goers prefer more whimsical towels depicting artistic illustrations of sea creatures such as lobsters or nautiluses, and also simple patterns of checks, stripes, or polka dots, as long as their designs use a limited color palette and avoid gaudy gradients or airbrush effects. Preppies do not use towels depicting flags, Bob Marley, peace signs, giant hundred-dollar bills, or Betty Boop. Basically anything sold at the local beachwear store is off-limits, just take my word for it. I prefer wearing polo shirts on the beach because they make me look more respectable, which serves to defend Wrightsville's tradition as a vacation ground for people of quality against the onslaught of trashy people in wifebeaters, jeans shorts ("jorts"), and basketball shoes with black socks who would fit in better at Carolina Beach. In fact, at a particular private beach club up the coast, t-shirts are forbidden in the clubhouse except for in the poolside restaurant and locker rooms. T-shirts can still be respectable on the beach if they bear logos or decorations related to other preppy vacation spots, but anyone wearing a t-shirt celebrating the present location is worthy of ridicule. I also find it silly and pretentious when I see people down south wearing t-shirts and hats from The Black Dog Tavern. This is North Carolina, people, not Nantucket. T-shirts from traditionally preppy local colleges and universities are also acceptable, provided the wearer actually attended, plans to attend, or is the child, parent, or grandparent of an alumnus and didn't attend a rival school himself. T-shirts celebrating participation in specific athletic tournaments of a preppy nature, such as soccer, lacrosse, or tennis championships, regardless of how long ago, are a third option. Off the beach, in town, the options are numerous, though there are still protocols to observe. During the daytime, it's perfectly fine for a man to walk around within reasonable walking distance of the beach in damp swim trunks, provided he wears a shirt and footwear and doesn't intend on eating in a restaurant. Preppy women always wear cover-ups or shorts and tops over their swimwear when not on the beach or at the pool. Cotton or linen shorts in various solid colors, seersucker stripes, Madras, or embroidered with patterns of nautical motifs are perfectly acceptable for men of all ages almost everywhere except fine dining establishments, even at bars and night clubs, but cargo shorts really aren't preppy, with their saggy pockets and bulging rear pocket flaps, and denim shorts are absolutely horrid. Shorts should fit well and not fall below the knee when standing. Chino trousers and canvas pants are safe choices for fine restaurants. Grown men should avoid t-shirts even at casual restaurants at dinner. Other shirting options include polo shirts and button-front shirts of seersucker or other lightweight natural fabrics, but garish Polynesian patterns aren't preppy. To be truly preppy, button-front shirts, unless they are constructed with a convertible collar and straight hem, should be long-sleeved and worn with the sleeves rolled up to suit the temperature. The exception to this rule is shirts in tartan patterns, the reason being if they were long-sleeved, they would look like checked shirts from the wearer's fall wardrobe. Shirttails can be worn tucked or untucked; if tucked, colorful belts with stripes or nautical decorations help to lessen the sense of formality. Shirttails should always be tucked at a fine restaurant or clubhouse. Preppy beach footwear includes flip-flops, be they expensive leather or cheap plastic, sandals, boat shoes of leather or canvas, loafers, and Blucher moccasins. All must be worn without socks when paired with shorts, but socks are optional when closed-toe shoes are worn with long pants. Athletic shoes can be worn in the daytime, with or without short white socks.

I did get a taste of preppy beach paradise one weekend this summer, when my wife and I joined her parents at their waterfront home in another coastal North Carolina locale. They enjoy private beach access as members of a beach club, which owns a strip of sand where only members are permitted to sit, and better still, alcohol is freely consumed without fear of legal action by zealous patrolmen. An attendant prepared a spot for us with comfortable chaises and large umbrellas, and a waitress brought us Bloody Marys, margaritas, and Coronas. All around me at all times were fine people of good breeding with well-mannered children. No one was loud or boisterous, nor did I spot any repulsive tattoos. Children knew not to tear around knocking people over. Jorts and wifebeaters were nowhere to be seen. It was everything Wrightsville used to be in the glorious '90s, before unwashed hoi polloi began creeping in from underneath their slimy rocks.

So, while I bid an emotional farewell to another glorious summer season, I turn my attention to the coming autumn and all it holds in store — winery tours, visits to the dog park, bowls of hot soup or chili on gray afternoons — and, while I love our exciting travels, I nevertheless look forward to lazy weekends at home, nestled in my living room with good books and hot drinks, wearing my cozy rugby shirts.