Tybee Tides and Tough Love

 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:

hold Pam’s head while she vomited and wished I would disappear,

or feed my grumbling stomach and swallow the rising panic of going off with two men I barely knew.

My stomach made the decision for me.

Off we went to find food and then toodle on down to the beach.

So there I was: a woman who had just lost her husband in February, standing on Tybee sand in July with two men who were essentially strangers, trying not to leak tears like a broken faucet. If you’ve never tried to “just relax” on a beach while your heart is breaking and you’re surrounded by The Boys, let me tell you — it’s a special kind of performance art.

They were trying so hard to be nice, but you could see the sheer panic in their eyes.

What do we do with the crying lady? Do we give her a sandwich? Should we point at a seagull?

I was a mess, they were terrified, and Pam was back at the room probably wishing for the sweet release of death.

At the time, I felt like a tragic figure in a beach drama.

Now? I realize I was the lead character in a very awkward comedy.

Tybee sand under my feet, ocean breeze in my hair, absolutely miserable.

Brandy called. I told her I was standing in the warm Atlantic Ocean, Pam was in the room barfing up her guts, John and Calvin were in the water having the time of their lives, and I was… just here.

Expecting a soft shoulder and some poetic words of comfort, instead I got the “sympathy” of a drill sergeant.

She listened to me whine for a second before dropping the hammer:

“Mom, chill out. Go get a margarita, sit on the beach, and enjoy it.”