Golf Cart: Tybee Island

 



  

Golf Cart Chronicles: Tybee Island  

Our official first day at Tybee Island meant one thing—golf cart time!

We checked in at the rental office:
“Your cart is T258. Make sure you know your golf cart’s number. You don’t want to drive off in someone else’s cart.”

(Actually, that sounded like more fun. Oh well, maybe not.)

“You’ll need a map with the No-No Route in red. DO NOT drive on that road. The penalty is $1,000. Only cross at traffic lights. Seatbelts on—police do seatbelt checks.”

Alright already. We got it. Just give us the keys!

Pam slid behind the wheel, and we took off like… a turtle on the sidewalk.
“Uh, are we supposed to be on the sidewalk?” I asked.

Pam hopped out, “You have a CDL—you drive!”
(Note: You don’t actually need a Commercial Driver’s License to operate a golf cart, but I kept quiet.)

So, I buckled in, shouted, “Hold tight, buckle up, shut up!” and floored it like an Indy 500 racer. The lady at the rental desk had warned us this might happen.

Driving blind without mirrors or a backup camera, I told John and Calvin in the back:
“You’re my eyes—be my backup camera!” I said.

They ignored me completely, like I’d just asked them to solve algebra.
So I start backing up… and wouldn’t you know it, a car magically appeared behind me.
Suddenly my human backup cameras sprang to life—louder than the one in my car and way more detailed:
“STOP! CAR! YOU’RE GONNA HIT IT! ARE YOU BLIND?!”

Honestly, my car just beeps politely. Pam's family? They narrate the accident before it even happens.

Our first speed bump I slammed the brake like I was trying out for Fast & Furious: Tybee Drift, but nope—we hit it full force anyway. The backseat boys shot into the air, arms flailing like passengers on a county-fair roller coaster. Seatbelts saved them from becoming part of Tybee’s permanent roadside décor.

“Sorry!” I chirped, cheerfully ignoring their death stares, as we rattled onward.

A few bumps later, we reached a one-lane bridge—clearly the bonus level. Another bump launched Pam’s Diet Pepsi into orbit. It bounced right out of the cupholder and landed in the middle of the bridge like a prize in a rigged carnival game.

“Calvin, grab my soda!”  Pam shrieked like it was her firstborn.

Calvin jumped out while I yelled, “Maybe let me STOP first?!” and slammed on the barely-there brakes. He stood in the middle of the bridge, Calvin held that soda aloft like it was the golden idol in Indiana Jones Adventure.  For a split second, I swear we were in a Looney Tunes short:  car barreling toward us and Calvin about to be squashed flat—still clutching the sacred Pepsi.

Didn’t happen. Whew.

John’s water bottle wasn’t so lucky. It catapulted straight into the marsh like part of a log flume splash zone. Not littering, mind you—clearly a special effects feature. (That’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.)

By Day Two, I discovered the cart could spin on a dime. Who needs three-point turns when you can whip around like a Tilt-A-Whirl? Sadly, my “human backup cameras” were off duty. I spun without checking, and when I looked back, both men were pale like they’d just staggered off a Gravitron.

Day Three, I surrendered and handed the wheel to Calvin. I buckled myself in like I was boarding a drop tower, one foot braced for impact. Off we shot—WHAM! Every speed bump, manhole, and pothole, he hit with precision aim. At one point, he swerved into a ditch just to nail a drainage pothole.

It wasn’t a joyride anymore. It was The Revenge of Calvin: An Off-Road Thrill Experience.

Payback complete.


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