For all the reasons a man who spent his childhood squeezing a trigger in the name of God and his nation doesn’t like fireworks, my father doesn’t like them. He enjoys fireworks, but only if he lights them himself. Over the years, he and I have taken advantage of this psychological weakness at several tourist trap locations on the East Coast.
Our most recent adventure was a trip to South Carolina when I was in my twenties. We packed a rental golf cart with a moderate amount of Miller Lite and an excessive amount of fireworks, and we headed to the beach to enjoy both. I didn’t think to ask if the fireworks were beach-legal, but the golf cart was road-legal. That trip, with its unpretentious excitement, is when I first began to appreciate my dad’s quiet enthusiasm for simple fun.
At the time, I was living in New York City, enamored with its bustling restaurants and rooftop bars. I also started to worry that I might eventually lose my enthusiasm for New York’s endless array of unique experiences. I was free and not particularly concerned with adhering to local fireworks regulations around ten years ago.
But now that I’m a husband and father, I’ve moved to Maine, and I’m a supposedly decent citizen of the country. I therefore wanted to follow the book exactly when I set out this week to recreate the fireworks-on-the-beach experience I’d shared with my father. I assumed this would be simple.
Similar to marijuana, sports betting, and other common vices, fireworks have been gradually legalized in recent decades. (It should come as no surprise that injuries from fireworks have increased in America as legalization has grown. According to a June report, ER visits related to fireworks were predicted to increase by 40% in 2024 compared to 2014.)
Massachusetts is the only state that still forbids all consumer fireworks, so the place where the battle for American freedom started with a bang is the only one where you can’t celebrate it with a bang. Maine, on the other hand, has some of the most lenient fireworks regulations in the nation.
I thought I would just have to drive to the local beach for kaboom, the fireworks store for supplies, and the gas station for beer. I never imagined that I would embark on a days-long journey with the un-Homeric objective of locating a section of coastline where I could lawfully set off hundreds of dollars’ worth of consumer-grade fireworks.
One thing I was correct about was that it was simple to legally purchase fireworks. (It wasn’t inexpensive, though; due to tariffs and inflation, prices this year are significantly higher than I recall.)
On Monday, I entered my neighborhood Phantom Fireworks store, presented my ID to a staff member who, presumably, neglected to provide me with the safety briefing I later overheard him reciting to other patrons, and then proceeded to browse the aisles, taking in the merchandise.
I was simultaneously moved by the wide range of American life that it attested to and overwhelmed by the scene of uniquely American excess. I found recreational explosives for every type of person living in this country, appropriate for every type of passion and ideological commitment: castle-doctrine “STAND YOUR GROUND” fireworks for the Second Amendment fan ($349.99), Rosie the Riveter fireworks for the feminist ($120.00), Illuminati-triangle fireworks for the conspiracist ($49.99), “SINGULARITY” fireworks for the AI enthusiast ($135.00), lobster-festooned “Wicked Pissah” fireworks for the New Englander ($49.99), Battle of Yorktown fireworks for history buffs ($179.99), “Shagadellic Mojo” fireworks for the horny customer ($44.99), suggestively silhouetted “Mega Mojo!” fireworks for the very horny customer ($149.99), and, my personal favorite, Boyz II Men fireworks for soulful harmonies ($199.99).
The Boyz II Men “End of the Road”-themed Phantom Fireworks special is undoubtedly one of the more morally upright ways for an adult to spend hundreds of dollars for a few seconds of pleasure.
A wide variety of firework types were also available at the store, including bombettes, mortars, and ground-bound fountains that shoot a volcanic stream of sparks. A fountain with a Komodo dragon motif almost tempted me, but I think a man must stand by his morals and a real firework should go up and boom.
I made half a dozen rounds of the aisles before I marched up to the cash register with five offerings, all in the aerial “cake” style that shoots flaming balls from a series of hidden mortar tubes: Jurassic Park and Jaws, two of my favorite Spielberg films; “Wicked Pissah,” which seemed required; “Bait a Hook,” which catered to fishermen (in keeping with my obsession with angling); and a generic rah-rah-patriotism package with the pretentious title “Neath the Red, White and Blue.”
Later, in a state of irrational panic because I didn’t have a real showstopper, I went back to the store and asked the first purple-shirted Phantom employee I saw for something under $200 that would really stand out. He shuffled silently to the farthest wall, took a package from a high display that said “Geomagnetic Storm” ($129.99), and gave the box a good slap on the side, like you would give a baby a burp. He said, “They like this one.”
I have no idea who “they” are, but I had faith in their taste. I left the store much poorer and with the unwavering belief that we have fun, even if the American project doesn’t last yet.
It was another matter entirely where to enjoy that fun. I became overconfident about how simple it would be for me to legally use the fireworks because I had bought them so easily. As I quickly discovered, many local municipalities in Maine enforce their own fireworks regulations, despite the state’s generally lax stance on the matter.
Fireworks are prohibited in some places all year round, while others only allow them on certain days and at certain times (usually July Fourth and New Year’s Eve). In addition, Maine only permits consumer fireworks to be set off from private property, and I regrettably don’t own a home with a beach. This made my wish to set off fireworks from a beach problematic.
I wanted to see if I could figure out a maritime solution. I got in touch with a few nearby fire departments to inquire about the wisdom and legality of setting off small fireworks from a boat. (I don’t own a boat, but I have a friend who does, and he has bad taste.)
Initially, nobody I talked to could say for sure if this was a safe or legal option, but one suggested that I call a Coast Guard information line. Although I received no response to my Coast Guard inquiry, I was advised to get in touch with the fire-marshal office in Maine, where I was finally informed by a conscientious and helpful public servant that it is strictly forbidden to set off fireworks from a personal watercraft.
However, they also mentioned that the fire marshal “issued zero citations for this in 2024,” which may be a wink-wink but is undoubtedly humorous.
After hours of researching local fireworks regulations, numerous phone calls, and one in-person visit to the fire department, I came to the conclusion that my modest goal of legally igniting fireworks on a beach to commemorate this nation’s birthday was much too ambitious.
I was compelled to compromise and not allow the ideal to stand in the way of the good. In the end, $300.60 worth of civilian-market explosives logically met their logical end in an extravagant and all-too-brief flurry of detonations, though I leave the details of that compromise to the reader’s imagination.
The fireworks I had purchased, including the legendary Geomagnetic Storm, were almost identical, which disappointed me a little. After I lit them, they all did roughly the same thing, regardless of price or theme: they hissed up into the sky, exploded in a commotion, and released a final burst of color and light.
However, they retained their timeless ability to make an adult man squeal with pleasure.
