For about 15 years my grandparents lived out in the “country” in Virginia, about 40 minutes from my house. They had five acres with a huge weeping willow tree in the front yard and a field of a thousand pine trees in the back.

With an aunt and cousins in the area as well, it seemed we went there a few times a month to celebrate something—a birthday, holiday, or just let’s get together day. In the summer we’d stay there for a week, which was probably designed half as a mini-vacation for us and half as a respite for my mother.

The big draw to us was the pool. Sitting in the back yard nestled inside a ring of hedges, the water bore the brunt of our leisure time. There were rafts, noodles, masks, goggles, things to dive after, and a slew of balls including a few beach balls.

We made up umpteen games using some or all of those things, or in the case of my brothers and I, we just smacked the balls at each other until someone got sufficiently pissed to throw it over the hedges. That was usually followed by a “Gosh, why’d you do that, idiot.” And a swift, “Shut up.”

The great thing about the beach balls is that they float, if you get hit it stings for a second but no permanent damage, and if you’re being pummeled, you can use the previously mentioned method of stopping your beating.

But maybe those reasons, well two of them, are precisely why you don’t actually see beach balls at the beach. Think about it. I can’t remember ever seeing one.

They float easily. That means when the kids are playing too close to the water, as kids are wont to do, the thing gets swept into the sea. Now if you act quickly enough, that’s not too much of a problem. Dive in, swim a couple of strokes and get the ball back.

But if you’re a parent chilling on the beach, relaxing for one of the few times all year where you can sit in the sun and just read a damn book, are you diving in after a ball you got for $1.99? Not a chance. That sucka is gone.

Sure, the kids might whine about how they don’t have a ball anymore, but hey, that’s just life lesson time. Kids, if you want things, don’t let them go into the ocean.

The same thing goes for the ball’s lightness qualities. The breeze along the water is virtually ever-present. If that thing’s not tied down in some manner, or snugly inside the giant whole the kid dug, it’s going to be headed down the beach in a second.

Maybe you’ll run into a good Samaritan who’s paying attention and snags the ball, waiting for a worried kid to come running up the beach to retrieve his wares. But most likely, you’re sitting in that chair saying: “Hey dude, look at this kid running after that ball. He’s never going to catch it. Let’s see how long he runs after it!”

Come to think of it, I may know where all those beach balls went. Someone check Barry Bonds’ pecs.

And if you’ve never seen a turtle attack a cat, you’re welcome.