Lighthouse, Sandals and the Lie

 



Tybee Island Light house

 

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.

Our first stop: the lighthouse.

At the ticket booth, the guy charged me full price until Pam chimed in:

“She’s a senior!”

Excuse me? I’ll happily pay full price if I’m passing for under-55, thank you very much. But hey, I took the discount and shuffled toward the shade with my dignity (and a few dollars) intact.

Now, the last lighthouse I climbed was in Oregon—170 straight-up feet, no breaks, no mercy. You stopped, you blocked the line. I was younger then, and it wasn’t pretty, but I got the little button proving I made it.

This one looked easier. Every 25 feet, you could pull over, breathe, look out a window. Piece of cake.

Except by the fifth stop, my calves were on fire and my little toe was screaming bloody murder. That stylish sandal strap? Yeah, it was slicing my toe like deli meat.

Then my sister called. I lingered in the rest area, pretending I couldn’t move in case the call dropped. She said, “You’re almost to the top!”

She lied.

Another flight, and I realized I was not almost there. My calves burned, my toe throbbed, and my brain questioned every life choice that had led me to climbing a lighthouse in heels. I tried standing like a flamingo to give my toe a break, but the ball of my other foot shouted, “Oh no you don’t.”

Gritting my teeth, I climbed the last 25 feet and finally—victory!

At the top, the view was spectacular. Ocean stretching forever, beach dotted with tents and umbrellas, breeze strong enough to snatch my hat and whip my hair into a bird’s nest. I snapped photos and videos that no one but me will ever care about.

And then… the descent.

Those black stairs loomed, and I wasn’t sure if I’d get down on my feet or my backside. Somehow, miraculously, I hobbled out alive and collapsed into a rocking chair.

Relief. Blessed, beautiful relief.

Lesson learned: don’t climb a lighthouse in heels. Unless you’re aiming for a blog story and permanent toe trauma.

   

   



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