We are experiencing one of the best summers I can remember. Every day seems to be beautiful, hot and sunny.

On a recent day, even though I had more important things to do, I grabbed my old faithful beach chair and off I went. The first thing I noticed when I got there was the high tide. High tide means the remaining strip of beach is packed with people attempting to enjoy themselves in all manner of ways.

It was too hot for me to care; I picked my way through the labyrinth of people and finally reached that magical zone where the ocean meets the beach. I opened my chair and plopped myself down in about 6 inches of ocean. This has always been a favorite spot of mine, even if I must put up with the skim boards and various ball games that people like to play in the shallows. Most of the time, people leave me alone. I have perfected a kind of crazed glare, warning people to bother me at their peril.

Looking up and down the beach, I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before. The beach was filled with tents that took up much of the sand that remained uncovered by the tide. In past years, I had noticed one or two of these pitched tents. On this day, the beach looked like a city of Bedouins.

Being the great social observer I am, I decided to investigate this phenomenon. I pushed my chair down into the sand so the tide wouldn’t carry it and proceeded to hike down the beach.

Since the beach was packed with people, I had to walk at least a foot deep in the water. The first tent I came to was a large white canvas covering held to the sand by long white ropes. It had a pretty trim to it, for reasons I don’t pretend to understand, and an American flag waving from its peak. Underneath, there was a group of people wearing clothes you would wear on the Boston Common. In other words, they were fully dressed. They were gathered around a folding card table playing a board game. Surrounding them were younger adults who were sitting in beach chairs but still wearing clothes you would wear to the mall.

“What a waste of sand,” I thought and continued my trek.

The next tent I observed was even more elaborate. It was tan in color and had many different designs on it. I have no idea what they meant, but underneath was a large group of middle-aged people sitting around a table stacked with food and beverages. It looked like they had set up their own little café. These people were surrounded by children playing in the sand under the protection of the tent. I noticed younger children venture outside only to have an adult tell them to get back underneath. This seemed strange to me. Why would anyone go to the beach to stay out of the sun?

The farther down the beach I roamed, the closer the people sat next to each other. It reminded me of pictures I’d seen of big-city beaches. Some of the tents had multiple strollers beneath them.

At last, I turned around and made my way back to my lone beach chair, plopped myself down and turned my face to the warm sun. Maybe my beach had changed over the years. Maybe it had been taken over by tent people. Maybe it had become more like Coney Island or Revere North. I didn’t care. Whatever anybody else wants to call it, I still call it home.