Just when the Tybee trip was hitting its stride, the universe (and some questionable seafood) decided to intervene. Pam went down with food poisoning — the kind that makes you want to negotiate with a higher power just to stop the room from spinning.
Her selfless advice?
“If you want food and fun, you better go with John and Calvin.”
I had two choices, neither one my kind of fun:
The Lighthouse in Heels
Pam wasn’t feeling great that morning, so John, Calvin, and I went off in search of breakfast. The line was long, but worth it. Calvin ordered a burrito the size of a football, with some mysterious brown blob on the side that looked suspiciously like… well, not food.
Neither of us knew what it was until Calvin braved a bite. Salsa. He smeared it on what was left of the burrito and made a show of loving it. I had my doubts, but hey—more power to him.
When we got back, Pam was feeling better, so off we went exploring.
I was feeling mighty stylish—new white shorts, new sandals with a one-inch clog heel. I don’t do heels, but this was a golf cart vacation. It’s not like I planned on walking anywhere.
Famous last words.
“You need white shorts,” Pam declared, giving my outfit the kind of side-eye usually reserved for fashion emergencies.
Black yoga pants. Black shirt with white flowers. Yes, technically tropical. But also… “Woman in Black” vibes. On a sunny island, I looked less like vacation and more like I was attending a beach funeral.
So began The Quest.
Every souvenir shop had shorts—tie-dye, camouflage, hibiscus flowers the size of dinner plates. Twenty-four bucks a pair, and not a single plain white option in sight.
Then we learned the secret: the thrift store would be open Wednesday, 10 a.m. to noon. Two hours only. That was our window.
We rolled up in our golf cart right at opening. An elderly woman waved.
“Headed to the thrift store?” she asked.
“Why yes, we are,” I said, full of hope.
Pam asked, “Why such short hours?”
The woman smiled. “Well, our volunteers average eighty-five. Youngest is eighty. Oldest is ninety-five.”
Mystery solved.
Going to the beach at Tybee Island, one thing was clear—we needed hats. Wrinkles and laugh lines are fine, but no need to invite new family members to the reunion.
At a flea market in Anderson, IN, I bought a huge floppy monstrosity of a hat. Not my style, but it would keep the sun at bay.
Then, on the very first day at Tybee, I realized I hadn’t packed enough shorts. Off I went in search of new ones and instead discovered it—the perfect hat. White straw, black band, just the right shape.
This was me. Twenty dollars later, I was the happiest Professional Tourist on the island.
The only problem? A little loose. No worries—I had a sewing kit… somewhere. (Key word: somewhere.) Pam, ever prepared, came to the rescue with hers. A few stitches inside the lining, a few experiments with the breeze, a few more stitches—success! Proof? I never lost that hat, even riding in the golf cart.
Fast forward to our last morning on the beach. Coffee in hand, sundress flowing, faithful hat snug on my head, crease marks on my forehead to prove it.
And then came the gust of wind.
The layout is… creative. One queen bed sits right in the living room, while the other queen bed is in the bedroom, which also happens to contain the only door to the bathroom. Translation: anyone sleeping in the living room has to tiptoe through the “master suite” in the middle of the night if nature calls. It could get interesting, but hey—we’ll survive.
Calvin popped the sofa out into a bed, piled cushions around like his own private fort facing the tv on the wall. Out came the game console... on went the headphones. Mom said no! We needed a driver, Calvin needed to play his game, he is on a time limit before it no longer exists. After five years playing this game, he needs to conquer the last world! Have game will travel.
And then—my big moment of genius.
The suspects claim innocence, but the cat looks like he knows too much I wasn't here to witness the may...
