The Sunset Beach Diaries, 2013, Pt 2

Well, we made it back. Sigh. I have to take a few deep breaths. Seriously. A week on the beach is hard work. Another deep breath. I’m going to convince you that it’s hard work, and then you’ll see why I’m taking so many deep breaths. Breathe. And then maybe you’ll also see why I am so happy to be home, while at the same time looking forward to going again next year. Deep breath. It’s very hard work. And I didn’t even take my laptop this year!

Historically, I have traveled with only the bare necessities when it comes to technology and electronics. For instance, my laptop backpack would have in it only the things I needed for the week: computer, netbook, tablet, SD card case with several spare SD cards, an SD card reader (or two), two of every kind of cable I might possibly need, spare styli, a couple of blank CDs, a USB light, screen wipes, my 3G hotspot and every possible dongle, cable and connection I might ever need or want to plug into my computer while I’m there. Seriously, what happens if I take a bunch of pictures on my D-SLR and didn’t bring a card reader to transfer them to the computer, and I lose the camera? Well, simply put, I lose the pictures.

Okay, enough about that. Like I said, I made it back. But let me tell you why I’m so exhausted. Mom’s house is thirty miles from the airport. And I went six times. I had to drive back to pick up Callie the day after I got there. Then later that night, I had to go back and get little sis Hanna. Then two days after that, I had to go back to get Spark. Then… okay, I know you don’t want to hear all that. But get this: on the day we all flew out, I had to wake up at 3:30 in the morning to take Callie back. Big deal, right? Well, I had to come back to the house and then wait for a shuttle that would take us all back to the airport I had just left! OMG! WTF! LOL!

I am so sick of airports. And with all the traveling I’ve done this year, I feel like I’ve been in an airport every week. Well, I almost have. And a new hotel every other week. I’m ready to just stay home for a while. Brew beer, sit on the driveway and drink beer, and then brew some more beer. Sigh. Seriously, deep breaths. Relaxing. So, why is vacation such hard work?

Well, besides the fact that I drove to the airport more times than a taxi last week, I feel like I have some other good reasons for hating it as much as I love it. So now, with a 470-word intro safely behind us, I shall proceed to tell you exactly what it is.

Onely, and this is probably only relevant to our annual vacation to Sunset Beach, is the sand. God, I hate sand. I effing hate it like rabies. I hate when it’s on my feet. I hate it between my toes in my flip-flops. I hate it when it’s wet and I step in it, or have to walk in it all the way home. I hate when it’s all up my legs and feels like salt. I hate that ring of it around the shower drain when I think I’ve gotten it all off. But most of all? I hate it in my bed. Really, every night when I’d go to bed, I’d sit on the edge of it and rub my feet together to get all the sand off. Then I’d turn and swing my feet into bed. Then I’d roll up on my side and wipe all the sand off the sheets. Then I’d do it again, and maybe a third time before finally saying a curse word and rolling over to try to go to sleep. I hate sand in my bed. And no matter how many times you wipe your feet and swipe your hands across the sheets, you will never ever get all the sand off the bed, and you are destined to sleep in it. Always. It’s inevitable, like death and Texas.

Secondly, we drink a lot of beer. Like, we wake up at seven in the morning (well, my sweet red-haired wife does) and have our coffee out on the patio before we tote all our stuff to the beach for a day in the sun. A wagon full of chairs and a ten-by-ten awning, and a cooler full of cheap beer, and we’re off. We then proceed to drink all of the beers and do almost nothing else, except occasionally wading out into the water to take a leak. All day. Oh, shut up. My dad used to say, “There are two types of people in the world: those who pee in the ocean, and those who say they don’t.” Get over yourself. You know you do it too. And I bet you pee in the shower.

After sitting in the sun all day (like starting at nine), drinking beer, we get showered and dressed and get ready to start our evening. We then go out to a nice dinner (usually something seafood related, like a grouper sandwich or all-you-can-eat crab legs) and drink beer. Then we’ll go to a bar and sing karaoke and drink beer. Then we’ll take a cab back to the home bar – that little tiki bar I told you about right on the beach – and drink beer. Then we finally stumble back home to the cottage where we sit out on the patio and have just one more. Then we go to bed. And try to get the sand out of the sheets.

So if you don’t think that’s hard work, try doing it for four days straight and tell me you’re not ready for a break. So after four days straight of it, we take a break. We go to John’s Pass and do a little shopping. I check in on my mannequin girlfriend, maybe pick up a hat and a cigar, and head over to the Pirate’s Pub and Grub, and grab a pint with Stavi. Or two. Ah hell, we’re having a great time, the beer is cold, and plus it’s raining outside! So why not just keep drinking? When all that’s said and done, we take the cab back to the home bar – that little tiki bar I told you about right on the beach – and drink beer. Then we finally stumble back to the cottage where we sit out on the patio and have just one more. Do you see a pattern here? Because if vacation is not about taking it easy on the beach and drinking beer, then I’m not afraid to admit I’m doing it wrong!

Our friends got married safely away. They wanted a sunset wedding on the beach just like ours. But they got rained out. We ended up sitting up at the house until a little after nine waiting for the rain to let up so we could all walk down there and make it happen. Well, it was dark already, but it was also July 4th, better known as “Independence Day”. We celebrate this holiday every year in remembrance of when our country popped fireworks back in 1776. So you remember how I was a little jealous that they were copying us by wanting a sunset? Well they got rained out. High-five! Oh, wait. They got fireworks instead. Oh, shit. Who’s number one now?

Seriously. While they were saying their vows amid the roaring of the incoming waves behind us, there were fireworks exploding in the sky, creating a brilliant, dazzling light show – not to mention the popping, fizzling sound they made in the dark, rainy sky. Good God, it was awesome. I got teary-eyed. I don’t get teary-eyed at weddings. I hate weddings. This, friends, was awesome. This was how it should be done. Well, they showed us up with their BABW. Those last two letters stand for Beach Wedding. You can guess the rest.

The Pirate Ship Cruise is a must. This is absolutely an imperative part of our trip to Sunset Beach, if you ask me. And this is my site, and you’re reading it – so I don’t care if you asked me or not. I’m telling you. If I get my way, we will be on that Pirate Ship every year. It’s a perfect way to close out a good week at the beach. You stand around the bar drinking beer, listening to loud music while kids shoot you with water guns. Then you finish the cruise with dancing and singing pirate songs. And drinking beer. Seriously, how much better can it get? The Pirate’s Life for me, friends. :yarr:

Wow, I’ve gotten wordy. Well, I wanted to tell you about the wedding since it kicked more ass than a mechanical donkey foot. Congratulations, Bret and Danae. May you see many sunsets on that beach as you go back for honeymoons and anniversaries. But may you also find sand in your sheets every night of your life. Plllllt. :mad:

This Post Has 3 Comments

  1. Linda

    Fantastic! Wish I could’ve been at the wedding. Me, I love weddings. You are a funny, funny guy. You crack me up. Congrats to me and Dad for bringing you into existence to make the world lighten up and laugh.

  2. space

    Danae said: Alanis would be proud :)

    It was indeed like a black fly in your chardonnay. Or ten thousand spoons, when all you need is a knife.

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