A Thrilling Time at the Beach

This year's family vacation was quite different from a year ago. Last spring we were visiting colleges up and down the East Coast, traipsing across tree-lined campuses.

With the college search process thankfully behind us, this time we had no agenda. There were no Fiske or Princeton Review guide books to read and toss in the trunk. There were no brochures and college course catalogues to scan and collect at each stop. No, this year was nothing like that. The only things to read were beach books. Lots of them.

As in times past, this year we read and relaxed at my in-law's place in Luquillo, Puerto Rico. My in-laws are big readers too. Their shelves are filled with an assortment of books accumulated from vacations over the years - literary stuff like John Updike, Zadie Smith and Margaret Atwood - and rows and rows of suspense-filled thrillers.

I know I don't need an excuse to read a thriller. Any time, anywhere, I could pick up a Robert Ludlum or Ken Follett and be drawn into the world of assassins and political intrigue. The thing is, books like these just aren't as good when read in the comfort of one's home.

They need sand, waves and sun-block smudges on pages to complete the experience. Like hotdogs at a ball park, some things just have to be consumed in the environment in which they were intended.

I know this is true, because more than once I've tried to finish a thriller in non-beach surroundings. I can get away with it on the plane ride home. While there's no sun, sand or ocean at 32,000 feet, those things are still close enough in time and memory that I can trick myself into thinking I'm still on vacation. But after I get home? Forget it. Just can't seem to finish the book. Even a good one.

Our family has the thriller-reading compulsion down to a science. We read and pass, read and pass, exchanging books - one or two a day - with a quick review to the next person. "Riveting"... "A page turner" ... "You won't be able to put this one down." Or sometimes, "Don't bother," saving a family member from a time-wasting dud.

It was in Puerto Rico a few years ago I read Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code," followed quickly by the (far inferior) "Angels and Demons." This year, my husband read Dan Brown's "Deception Point," before passing it along to my daughter.

She passed John Grisham's "The Last Juror" to me, as I handed Grisham's "The Broker" to her. The passing thing is like musical chairs - there's a mad grab for a just-finished book, especially when given a thumbs-up from the last reader. My son hasn't gotten into thriller-reading so much, preferring the active side of beach vacations - boogie boarding, playing paddle ball, body surfing. He did, though, finish off "Animal Farm"- required reading for his English class.

Thrillers are perfect beach books. With dialogue like, "nice try" "wanna bet?" and "no lie," they can be easily consumed while lathering on sun-block and munching on a potato chip. This year I especially enjoyed Brad Meltzer's "The Zero Game." Set on Capitol Hill, it had all the right elements - murder, politics, shocking twists and turns.

Having been a Capitol Hill intern during the summer of '79, I was familiar with the world of Appropriations Committee meetings and creepy underground tunnels. Like the Congressional page character in the book, I too, ran errands, bringing sealed envelopes to VIPs in the Dirksen and Russell Senate office buildings. I'm sure, though, the messages in the envelopes I delivered contained nothing as intriguing as those in "The Zero Game." Or did they?

My fascination with political thrillers was no doubt rooted in my childhood, where I grew up in the DC area with a father who was completely immersed in politics. In addition to being a political junkie, my dad was an avid reader. And he loved thrillers. He was the first to get the new Robert Ludlum or John de LaCarre.

He always read from a hardback; he could never wait for the paperback version. It was my dad who urged me to read "The Day of the Jackal" and "The Eye of the Needle" while on a family beach vacation back when I was in high school. They are without a doubt the best thrillers I've ever read.

In addition to Grisham and the political thriller, I read the crime drama "Lost Light" by Michael Connelly. This story had everything - an unsolved murder, the disappearance of an FBI agent, stolen millions, a terrorist connection. And an appealing and very human hard-luck ex-cop named Harry Bosch, determined to solve a murder that had haunted him for years.

My daughter and husband were fighting over this one after my "this was great" review.
The last book I picked up was a literary suspense-type novel, "Samaritan," by Richard Price. I got about half-way through it on the beach, and read more on the plane ride home. It's sitting on my kitchen table now, still smelling of sea-salt, a few specks of sand stuck between the pages. I hope I can finish this one - it was quite good. And also, I really, really, want to know "who did it?"

(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)