Easy does it

ROCKPORT -- The sand is dark and soft, slightly damp.

John Penaloza burrows his bare feet into it, kicking up gritty clumps. In his hand is a heavy, coconut-sized ball.

He crouches. Stands straight. Bends down again. Juggles the ball to his left hand. Once more to his right.

Then he springs, pitching it underhand.

It plunks and rolls, tracing an inch-wide track in the sand. Clunking into another ball, it stutters to a stop.

"All right!" someone yells from the crowd gathered around him on the beach, waves caressing the shoreline. "Great shot!"

Low tide exposes the pristine beach we don't always get to see: crustaceans, slithery creatures, ripply impressions left behind by waves.

And, also, a bocce court?

For this Rockport-based group it is.

They imagine boundaries in seaweed-lined surf and water marked rocks. Rough terrain in divots from human and dog feet. Unique challenges in sand formations.

"Sometimes we'll play inside castles that kids left behind," says Penaloza, the shoeless thrower who organizes the group. "Natural hazards are part of the fun."

They're known as the Rockport Low Tide Bocce Group. They play the ball-tossing target game during daylight low tides on weekends at Rockport's Front Beach, a short strip of sand at the end of several cramped streets.

There are no rosters or standings. Stark competitiveness isn't encouraged.

Like the tide, players wax and wane: There might be as few as two or as many as eight.

Most are beachside neighbors who consider the sandy, 600-foot strip of shoreline their backyard.

"The beach is so nice," says Pavel Korzinek of Rockport, a thick lilt revealing his upbringing in the Czech Republic. "You have to find something to do here, some excuse to stay awhile."

He stands in the sand, barefoot. It's a Sunday afternoon. Six gather on this cloudless, 70-degree day to play.

As the games proceed, nearly everyone gets the acclamation of "good shot!" from Mario Cresta.

"Anyone makes a good shot, I'm happy," says the Wakefield native, Penaloza's father-in-law. "Regardless of what team I'm on."

"Yeah, right," his son-in-law, who calls him "nonno," or grandpa, interjects, laughing.

Cresta turns to him, quipping, "Well, except for you, John."

A few feet away, Erica Smyth lines up a green ball, then releases it along the sand as if she were bowling. It strikes the target ball, then skitters a few inches to the left.

"Whoa!" Cresta exclaims, on cue, "Nice shot!"

The other players take aim, turn by turn, with the 3-pound, 4-inch-diameter balls. At one point a small white dog makes a game out of charging the rolling spheres. "You can nudge it closer," Cresta yells to the canine, "but don't try to pick it up."

Farther down the beach, a group of guys play football, Pink Floyd blasting from a portable radio. A white poodle zigzags through human legs, tennis ball clenched in mouth.

Out on the water, fishing boats drone by; sailboats drift lazily.

The tide engulfs the shoreline, soaking the sand and tracing piles of seaweed along its path.

Twelve hours from now, the beach will be awash in water.

Seven feet of it, roughly, says Marcos Pittore, fingers balled into his jean pockets as he watches the game.

He lives right on the beach: A cedar-shingle house with mustard trim a few hundred feet away from where the group plays.

Bocce reminds him of bowling, he says. That's why he likes it. And there's also the ambience. "It's nice out here," he says. "This is a release."

But, he notes with a chuckle, "I'm not very good at it."

Standing next to him, 19-year-old Alexandra Boyd of Somerville hugs her middle as salty wind whips off the water. A large Christmas bell serves as a choker around her neck and red barrettes hold back her short black hair.

She's played since she was little. Seven or 8 years old, she figures.

"I'm not a pro, no," she says, laughing. "But it's got good memories to it. A homey feeling."

Just then, there's a subtle round of clapping. The players rush to the mass of balls scattered around the small white target ball called the pallino.

They nudge the noncontending balls away. It's down to three: two red and a green. Penaloza uses a lanyard to measure the difference between them.

"We got green," he determines.

Such close margins of victory make the game enjoyable, Penaloza says later. It can be hard-fought.

A native Venezuelan, he's played bocce -- known as "Bolas Criollas" in his homeland -- since he was a child.

And he could play all day. Quitting is "just a matter of hunger and fatigue," he says.

Both factors eventually take hold during the Sunday afternoon game: The group disbands after several rounds in a 2 1/2-hour span.

A few linger to chat; others drift back up the beach.

Penaloza collects the balls and loads them into a plastic wagon.

Behind him, the tide continues to creep in.