There is no way to describe the greasy, sticky, feeling of self-loathing that seeps into your skin on a Trailways Bus from Boston to Daytona Beach, Florida. No adjectives sufficiently apply. This feeling is more like an instinct, akin to that of a snake struggling out of its skin.

I took a seat by the window so I could watch the scenery change from the brown, icy skeletons of a Boston winter to the warm, moist immaculacy of the Southern beaches.

But I feel asleep. The two fraternity boys in front of me broke out their thai stick, and no one seemed to mind, except two businessmen who were prattling in German and clutching their briefcases as if they were holding babies to the bosom. And I caught a whif too many, and I feel asleep, and I woke up with this feeling, with this powerful sun streaming through the bus window, magnified onto my skull, popping beads of sweat from my pores, soaking my clothes....., loathsome feeling.

"Hey, fellas, its Spring Break," the fraternity types announced to the world, and fled the moldy bus for the neon-cluttered streets of Daytona Beach. They argued where they would go first to have fun--the pinball arcade? the amusement park? the Burger King? the Beachcomber Disco? the motel? And then an idea. THE SOUVENIR SHOP. But this was too difficult--there is a souvenir shop on every other block in Daytona Beach, and no good fraternity man can render a decision of such discretion at short notice. So they went out to the parking lot of the bus station and smoked some more thai stick.

It all goes to prove that fraternity men--lost in a maze of Greek symbols--have no instincts, just pranks. For in this eyesore of an American city, there is only one home beyond the bright cars and bars and stars and stores and doors and store 24s--the beach. Daytona's only redeeming feature. Perhaps the only reddeming factor for any American city. The only place in America's officious urban character where the lonely can find the lonely, the troubled can listen to peace, and the hot and frenzied can relax.

Dayton's late March climate is Boston's summer climate, and in both places at the appropriate times, you can hear people indulging in stupid arguments over whether it's the heat or the humidity. They, too, have instincts. If any of these people had instincts, they would find a place where they don't have to struggle with the heat and the humidity (or either one of the two), they would find a place where they can relish both.

But the only relish these vacant people ever find is on their hot dogs, and this is what real beach bums call "beach bummers." Daytona Beach knows it well. They have a highway flowing right through the middle of Daytona Beach, it goes all the way to route 95, a cavalcade of yellow, scarlet, pink and sublime green cars. No maroon volvos here--just bright Corvettes, and bright Mustangs, and bright Sun Bugs, and bright Trans Ams. And hot dog stands. Most of the hot dog stands on Daytona Beach have American flags and mustard and relish, enough mustard and relish and beer and roller coasters to make America nauseous for years. There was the story of the artist who visited Daytona Beach to discover sex and intimacy. After several of his propositions were defeated, he opted for a hot dog. Then he ran screaming to the beach and told passersby he was going to swim to England "where its beautiful." He tried, but his body was discovered the following night by a bunch of fraternity jocks who were sitting out on the beach drinking by a resort motel.

Terrible, terrible instincts, Especially for the artist. For if he had any sense, he would have tried different beaches, the kind where people put their trash in barrels, where beer cans and glass rivets will not slash your feet to ribbons, the kind where amusement park screams are a thousand miles away. The beach is solitude, with yourself or with your friends. The beach is peace when you want it, and total freedom when you are ready for it.

And in that sense, Boston has more beach to offer than any other major city on the East Coast. Boston's better beaches conjure up primal instincts, joy, and the privacy of grassy dunes. Some of these beaches are social wastelands strewn with trashy people with trashy instincts, but some are respected, and those that are most respectable are held by wildlife conservationists. They are open to the public, often at an ominous fee, but some are free. And they don't allow beer. And you'll need a car to get there:

Crane Beach. Ipswich. This is a legend. The huge stretch of Ipswich land was once owned by the family which brought you America Standard toilets and seats, and the Castle overlooking the beach (on Castle Hill) was their home. Castle Hill is now open to the public, and it is often used for weddings. Crane Beach is probably the North Shore's most popular beach, and all of the property is owned and maintained by the Trustees of Reservations.

Crane Beach is also one of the most expensive beaches in America. The only place to park is on beach land, and to enter the parking lot, you must pay $4.75 per car on weekends, $3 on weekdays. The hot dog stand is inconspicuous and confined to the parking lot; there are no American flags.

If you go there any time during July and August, turn back if the man at the gate warns you about the "greenheads"--they are not flowers, they are monstrously deformed horseflies that bite like scorpions.

From Cambridge, get out to Fresh Pond circle and follow the signs for route 2. Once down route 2, take route 128 north until you reach exit 20N. You want to go through Hamilton, Wenham and finally Ipswich. Follow signs down route 133 to Crane Beach.

Plum Island. Perhaps the state's most idyllic beach, Plum Island is across the bay from Crane Beach. Plum Island beach is actually known as Parker River Wildlife Reservation, and only 50 cars are allowed inside the reservation. Admission is free and open to the public, but Plum Island is most frequented by ornithologists, and they are inconspicuous in the bushes. It is one of the few beaches in the Bay State where you will really be alone with blueberries, bayberry bushes, mild surf and miles of beach. Good seafood and eating "in the rough" nearby.

From Cambridge, follow the same route to Crane Beach. At route 133, though, follow signs to Essex and Newburyport out of Ipswich, and then follow signs for Plum Island.

Good Harbor Beach and Bass Rocks, Gloucester. Your average, populated North Shore beach. Go up route 128 to Gloucester and ask directions--the roadwork in this town is fairly complicated. Don't expect too much--despite the beautiful beach and rocky shores nearby, there is a lot of trash and teenage waste. Free, if you can park.

Scusset Beach and Reservation. This is a state park, and one of the easiest beaches to commute to. It's about an hour's ride from Boston down route 3. which is about as far as the aforementioned North Shore beaches. Scusset beach is next to a campground, too, and the site is ideal for overnight affairs. The camping fee is $5 per couple, but the camping lot is nothing more pleasing than a shrubby parking lot. Nice view of an electric power plant across the Cape Cod Canal, though.

If you don't have a car, you can find some MDC (Metropolitan District Commission) beaches within Boston's city limits. Some of these beaches are sand pits, and some of them are decent. None of them are nirvana:

Nahant, Nantasket, and Revere Beaches. These beaches hang on the city limits of Boston, in Nahant. Hull and Revere, respectively. They are MDC maintained, and they look it. On a busy weekend, most people don't bother to police their bad instincts, so what you have is a lot of trash. Revere and Nantasket have always been adjacent to amusement parks, and the hush of the waves is complimented by traffic noise and the sound of nearby mechanical thrills. Revere Beach, however, is beginning to clean up its act--the amusements are going elsewhere, and the beach is expected to lose its Coney Island Jr. atmosphere. All of these beaches are accessible by subway. There is no admission, no parking fee.