The whole point of going all the way the hell down to the most remote point of land on the East Coast is to be able to drive around on the beaches, scare children, run down plover nests and suchlike. To do that properly, you need an authentic beach jalopy, preferably a Jeep Grand Wagoneer from way back in the last century, preferably one you found in the condition of a Baghdad taxicab, and not a green-zone one, either. One that's basically a rust outline of what you want to end up with. Then you spend a year or so making it presentable, mostly on Sunday mornings, time your wife believes is better spent in church, but such people will never understand that Sunday mornings are the ideal time to work on projects. Besides, God understands that a beautifully-restored beach buggy is a sacred object. Once it's finished, the only thiing left to do is invite a portly artist friend for a weekend at the beach and then watch in amusement as he applies sunscreen to every inch of porcelain-white flesh except for his feet. He forgot his feet. Within hours Sissy City Boy is whining and howling like a Mexican Jumping Scallop. Now that's entertainment.