Snow-birding at the speed of 70

Redington Beach sunset photo by Tim Mulherin

By Tim Mulherin

Sun contributor

I turned 70 in early March. Those of you who have already reached that lofty milestone know exactly what I mean when I say that it’s a weird place to be. For me, the mind is still stuck in the 70s—meaning the decade—while the body is wholly in 2026. Of course, those of you who are much younger have no idea what that’s like. But you will; just give it some time.

On that keep-it-to-myself occasion—no birthday party for me, thank you very much—I was snow-birding with my wife, Janet, in Redington Beach, in Southwest Florida. I’m okay with Florida—for a few weeks. As for Janet, the warm weather and sunshine are a tonic for her chronic fatigue syndrome and alleged seasonal affective disorder (she is nowhere near me as I write this). She prefers, insists, and gets her way to stay longer, a five- or six-week duration, which has become our snow-birding habit for the past five years. She’s of Middle Eastern descent, so sand, sun, and heat are in her gene pool.

My people, however, hail from Ireland’s County Mayo. Winter’s gray skies can’t dampen our mood, won’t diminish our thirst for a pint or two of Guinness, and help to keep the skin cancer at bay. As well, my northeastern Pennsylvania upbringing gave me a love of snow (though at my age, I can do without four-foot-plus snowstorms). The very word sends a shudder through my Syrian princess, however.

In mid-March, northern Michigan was the recipient of a pre-Saint Patrick’s Day snowstorm of blizzardy proportions. Friends sent me unbelievable photos of snowdrifts, including one from a neighbor of his nearly buried pickup truck with its completely covered snowplow. Janet shuddered. I marveled. And no, I didn’t snobbishly revel in our snow-birding because of the snowstorm Up North we were missing and our friends were enduring, a cruel sucker punch at winter’s end. Frankly, I regretted not being there to experience Mother Nature flexing as only she can. Awe is always in season. Janet says I need therapy.

Being marooned by choice for more than a month on the sugar sand beach in the Sunshine State was a spectacular people-watching opportunity. We older folks, intrepid beach walkers, are generally congenial and will readily strike up a conversation about, say, a baseball cap or T-shirt advertising a Michigan college or university. Let’s go Spartans! Maize and Blue forever! So many venerable Michiganders flee to Florida for the winter; estimates suggest as many as 200,000 head south to avoid the snowy season.

When it comes to spring break, Redington Beach is no Fort Lauderdale. The one-square-mile town is located on a barrier island with no shortage of wealth. The bar scene is almost nonexistent. The few drinking establishments there distinctly don’t cater to a daddy’s money clientele. Yet some college kids still show up thanks to relatives with property along Florida’s Sun Coast. A trickle arrived the first week in March, and they really stood out. Many fairly glowed a pasty white. We winced at the thought of the sunburns underway.

The collegiate vacationers tend to gather in large groups, perhaps a manifestation of a collective primordial survival instinct. Unlike their elders, sitting doesn’t come easy. They are virtual perpetual motion machines, constantly throwing footballs, playing spikeball, or doing as their grandparents did, tossing Frisbees. Or, also doing as their grandparents did, standing in waist-high salt water and quaffing beer. Or now, drinking hard ciders and canned cocktails. They are exuberant, excited to be young. As they should be.

As a species, the spring breakers also like to keep to themselves, as if in a make-believe reality bubble. They ignore the presence of their elders. Not one acknowledged my existence when passing by me on the beach, even as I attempted to make eye contact and say hello. Perhaps they’re frightened by the specters of their inevitable future, which I represent. I don’t think we’re all that scary looking. But I forget when I was their age. Which is probably best.

One chilly early March morning, with the temperature in the high forties, I watched a couple of retired locals attired in sweatpants, puffer coats with hoods drawn, stocking caps, and gloves (seriously) braving the elements while walking the windswept beach. Bringing up the rear, about 20 yards behind them, were three college-aged young men. They were bare-chested, sporting thin excuses for moustaches and beards, clad in shorts, catching some rays. As courageous as they appeared, they didn’t fool me. Their vanity couldn’t mask that they were slowly turning into human popsicles.

As for the coeds, they generally seemed to be quite fond of thong string bikinis, some of the micro variety. Surprisingly, so were some older women. Much. Older. Women. Regardless of the age or physical fitness of the bold bikini wearers, they do deliver an eyeful. Their uncovered cheeks of various dimensions jiggled freely as they hip-swayed their way down the beach. (As an equal opportunity columnist, I must add that we were “treated” to a few AARP-qualified—and then some—males who were obviously Anheuser-Busch stockholders sporting Speedos. Apparently, indecency is entirely subjective.)

It seems that getting attention is the full intention of the super-skimpy swimsuit wearers. These days, as a grandfather, I try not to look. Now I’m embarrassed for them. (Admittedly, once upon a time I would have cheered my bikinied peers on.) Janet would sometimes shake her head, wondering what their mothers would say. As for the free-spirited retirees strutting their stuff, she would ask rhetorically, “What are they thinking?”

We laughed at our inside joke as we waited for our view of the Gulf of Whatever It’s Called to clear, hoping for bottlenose dolphins or osprey to help us unsee the unavoidable, immodest showboating. Yet undeniably, the sightseeing from the comfortable vantage of our Tommy Bahama beach chairs certainly was entertaining.

Seventy now. My skin is stretched – no cosmetic resistance applied, preferring not to fight the inevitable—as is my gut, which still savors that occasional belly bloating beer or two, another physiological phenomenon of age. My face is slowly, inexorably wrinkling. My hip and knee joints audibly snap, crackle, and pop whenever I gruntingly arise from a sitting position. What’s more, my mind isn’t as sharp as it once was, although Janet half-jokingly says she hasn’t noticed any difference whatsoever.

Although I do exercise daily—and hide it well—I’m not as flexible or energetic as I used to be. So far, in this dawning last chapter or two of my life’s story, there are good days mostly, and I remain grateful for that. Most afternoons I find myself surrendering to the gravitational pull of a nap. It is a small pleasure I never would have imagined looking forward to not so many years ago. Even nodded out on the beach, mouth agape, drool on my chest. I suppose I’m as carefree as the thong-wearing women and Speedo-slinging men. Inhibitions be damned on a Southwest Florida beach. Critics, too.

Tim Mulherin is the author of This Magnetic North: Candid Conversations on a Changing Northern Michigan, a 2026 Michigan Notable Book. His upcoming book, to be published by Michigan State University Press, is about Midwestern wildlife, with a focus on fauna living in Michigan and Indiana.