Sunset Over Pensacola

 

 

Disaster with a View

The sun dissolved into the wispy bank of clouds, anfractuous in large brush strokes of brilliant pastels. The venerable tide crashed into the shore; spray propelled by the cool evening breeze. Sometimes nature is the ultimate tranquilizer.  The sunset over Pensacola was the vacation we needed from our vacation. 

“Well, it is a beautiful sunset that we likely would’ve otherwise missed,” I told my wife.

These words of philosophical internal harmony are brought to you by Big Pharma and the makers of Prozac. 

For context, we’d just ducked our third potential calamity in as many days.  I could either be philosophical or acquiesce to indignant insanity.  I was on vacation with my wife and daughter.  The choice was clear but not necessarily easy. 

My vacation week had commenced the previous Friday afternoon when my daughter and I drove to Oklahoma City to see Young the Giant.  It was my de facto birthday gift to her.  My daughter’s taste in music is currently at Syd Barrett-level schizophrenia, and like most parents and children, we’re often at odds.  However, I can’t thank her enough for not being a Swiftie. For our night out, I was online for three minutes, spent a hundred dollars, and saw a show we both enjoyed.  It was an ideal daddy-daughter experience.  

My wife is adamant about taking some sort of real vacation each year.  It’s a policy I generally endorse but it wasn’t optimal this year.  When our daughter was selected for her school’s volleyball team, we did not realize the expenses we were incurring.  In the weeks leading up to our departure, it was like the volleyball program had turned 21 and we were the trust fund. 

For the extended Independence Day weekend, we elected to visit Gulf Shores, Alabama.  It was a beach town, reasonably priced, and within driving distance which would allow us to take our dog along.  My wife crunched numbers like Cyril Figgis to make this vacation work.  However, with nonrefundable reservations already booked, our only choice was to buckle down and hope for the best. 

When I don’t feel financially secure, I become edgy and fret impulsively.  I had a feeling of dread in the days leading to our departure.  I felt like we were taking a piggy bank to an estate sale.  In dutiful manner, my mind cataloged everything that could possibly go wrong during our trip.  I even entertained a number of virtual impossibilities just to make sure I wasn’t under-packed.  I spent the weekend sullen and cranky.  Somehow, I figured that was better than voicing my concerns and sounding like a hyper-neurotic homebody.

At my wife’s recommendation, the bulk of the driving was done overnight.  As a nocturnal creature, this made sense for her.  She agreed to knock out the first half of the twelve-hour drive while I dozed.  With a car packed to the gills, we rolled out at 11pm, headed for the Deep South.  What could go wrong?

Actually, I’d made a mental list.

I took my first shift at the eastern edge of Arkansas and continued driving into the Mississippi sunrise.  Lousy sleep and banal landscape had me drowsy again east of Vicksburg, when my wife, refreshed from a power nap, returned to the driver’s seat. 

From a scene in one of my pre-trip nightmares, I woke to the sound of my wife calling my name.  I snapped to life hearing the sounds of two things.  Madonna’s “Open Your Heart” and the rhythmic cacophony of a flat tire.  The Mississippi Asphalt Monster had breakfast at the expense of our rear passenger tire.  It was roughly 6:45 in the morning on July 4.  The first explosion of Independence Day was not festive.

Retrieving the sparetire was the most challenging aspect as the intricately packed trunk had to be unpacked at the lifeless side of Highway 20.   I’ve never had a flat tire that was a simple case of a nail or screw that can be patched for ten bucks, and I knew there was no way luck would be on my side, but I took a peek anyway.  The tire was mutilated.  The Mississippi Asphalt Monster is as truculent as it is ravenous.  After our incident, I noticed the highway shoulders were filled with shredded tires. Sort of the Mississippi version of the dead armadillo.  

Say what you will about Walmart, and believe me, I have, and will again.  But without it, the odds of getting a tire replaced on Independence Day morning in Clinton, Mississippi become uncomfortably steep.  Our navigator took us through a residential section of town before spitting us out at a SuperCenter where the automotive department was stirring to life on an already sultry morning. 

Arriving early meant there wouldn’t be much of a wait.  It was a matter of this location having the correct size tire in stock.  They did, but it wasn’t of the economy variety.  Being 520 miles from home with 250 to our final destination and then 775 miles for the return trip, the sparetire was not an option.  We gave to go-ahead and settled into the automotive center waiting den, where my wife furiously recalculated our wounded budget.  I walked the entirety of the store in search of an open restroom while the girls watched a reality show concerning meter maids.  The attraction defies explanation, but within seconds of my return, I was lured in. One man in Philadelphia (Pennsylvania, not Mississippi) had two adult sons with impounded vehicles simultaneously.

Despite the tire fiasco, we reached Mobile well before check-in and rode out a monsoon in the Tru parking lot.  Tru is a Hilton brand aimed at hipsters.  Best I could tell, there are no hipsters in Mobile.  With two hours to kill, we drove into downtown Mobile and picnicked in Bienville Square beneath the modest skyline and overcast sky.  The buildings were old with a distinct French influence and small palm trees lined the streets.  The air was damp and thick.  It was like a dollar store New Orleans without the entertainment options.

After a much-needed uneventful night at the Mobile Tru, we checked out and drove to Dauphin Island which provided our first glimpse of Gulf Shore beauty.  Lush vegetation gave way to white sand and beach grass as we toured the tiny island.  My wife and I enjoyed reading the names of the pastel beach houses and bandied names for the one we’re unlikely to ever own.

Eager for sand and saltwater, we settled at the East End beach near Fort Gaines under ominous skies.  The sand was coarse but white; the water was muddy–likely a product of the recent rains.  Though not particularly attractive visually, the water was like a bath.  The clouds finally gave up and pushed away, leaving a pleasant but hot afternoon. 

It was our Morkie’s first beach experience. He was not impressed.  The gulls were obnoxious, and the warm charging water was too reminiscent of a bath. He still prefers to do his sunning in our backyard on the basketball court.  The girls and I had no such qualms.  It was good to be back in the sand and the warm, salty water.  After a difficult beginning, it was beginning to feel like were actually on vacation.

After a few hours, we packed up to head on to Gulf Shores and caravanned back to the car.  Our daughter led, followed by me, with my wife trailing with the dog on his leash. Seemingly from nowhere, a light brown pit bull charged, its menacing eyes fixed on our seven-pound bougie dog. Abiding by beach protocol, the dog was on a leash.  Unfortunately, there was nothing on the handle end of the chain.

When I turned to lend assistance, my wife had dropped to the sand like Martin Brodeur going to the ice in a perfect butterfly–five-hole closed, stick down, glove up, with our growling, terrified dog behind her.  The If-It-Ain’t-Pit-It-Ain’t-Shit owner grabbed his dog and restrained it. Corrective action was administered in the form of a trio of blows to the pit bull’s snout.  Punish the deed indeed.

This is probably not the recommended defense, but there’s no denying a mother’s instincts.  Nothing was getting to our dog.  I commended her flash of athleticism, but the incident clearly shook her though everyone escaped without a scratch.  

This was our second near-disaster in as many days.  Even I hadn’t imagined this one.

Ours was the pink one among the clusters of pastel tiny cottages off the Bon Secour Highway.  A simple, metal-roofed A-frame, the place was a delight and a much-needed friendly port in a stormy voyage.   A sign atop the refrigerator had been customized to welcome us by name, dog included.  It was the best I’d felt that week.  

 

Little Pink

The plan had been for my wife to cook at the cottage, taking advantage of the multiple seafood markets in the area. That would require a trip to the grocery store that nobody was up for after our late arrival. Desperate for anything in line with a beach vacation, we decide to try a restaurant called Surfside Pizza.  Surfside is an easy way to pump intrigue into the otherwise mundane. Surfside Used Cars.  Surfside Sheet Metal.  Surfside Proctology.  Surfside Check Cashing and Payday Loans. Surfside Tire and Wheel (closed Independence Day).

Our phone navigator led us to a karate dojo adjacent to a custom rim shop.  Neither surprised nor deterred, my wife decided to call for directions.

            “Surfside Pizza downtown, this is Mike,”

            “Hi Mike, could you tell me where you are located?”

            “Did Google send you to a karate studio?”

The pizzas were named for Beach Boys songs and surfer slang and the decor was surf themed.  We were smitten before our dinner came out of the oven.   The three of us gormandized the extra-large half-Kokomo, half-Big Kahuna.  Surfside Pizza. Three locations in Gulf Shores.  Mike was cool too.  I recommend it.

After a sluggish start, hampered by Beavis and Butthead re-runs while my wife collected groceries, we set out for Orange Beach.  Traffic through Gulf Shores was typically heavy, but the drive was scenic.  The vibe was unequivocally beach town.  In our quest to make like Sammy Hagar (we got north beach, south beach, trying to find the perfect beach), we passed through Flora-Bama and into Pensacola.  It wasn’t perfect but it was pretty damned nice.  We set up camp thirty yards from the shore.

That afternoon in Florida continued our peripeteia.  We did learn that, even on the beach, Section D exists.  We were situated a few yards from a group of obnoxious teenagers who were eventually joined by their impossibly more obnoxious parents.  Still, the weather was perfect, and being on a beach allows one to overlook many peccadilloes that would otherwise be irritating.  When the sun began to set, our stomachs growled, and we packed up to return to the cottage.  

Back at the car, my wife searched for the small purse she had put the car keys in.  

“It’s in the car.  On the floorboard,” reported our daughter, peering through the window.

Oh shit. 

We had trunk access and had been of the belief that the doors would not lock with the keys still inside.  We rummaged through bags, towels, and pockets to make sure the keys weren’t with us.

This was not the first time we’d locked ourselves out of the car at a beach.  Ten years earlier we’d managed to do the same thing in Galveston.  That entailed a two-hour wait for a fifty-dollar locksmith.  At least this time I had the presence of mind to contact our insurance company.  My wife opened the mobile app and summoned assistance.

During the wait, my daughter and I returned to the beach and walked the shore.  It was a perfect evening to stroll the beach, though nothing had quelled my overall uneasiness.  After an hour, we returned to the parking lot to join my wife who had just received a text saying help was five minutes away. Our daughter pined to return to the shore one last time, so we raced back for one more look.

Ten minutes later, my wife joined us.  The assistance that was five minutes away had resigned the dispatch, claiming he was no longer able to aid us. The reason was never explained.  We don’t know if the driver received a more lucrative offer or decided it was time to clock out for the day.  Maybe he discovered he’d left his automobile entry tools at home.  Whatever the case we had to start the process over.  Facing another hour of wait time, the three of us sat in the sand and enjoyed the glorious sunset.  

With uncertainty still hanging over us, my own thoughtlessness threatened to add to our problems. I waded back into the water which was up to my waist when I felt my iPhone in my pocket.  I pulled it out, held it high above my head, and raced back to the beach as though a shark had been spotted.  

My phone was damp and managed to snap thirty shots of the inside of my swim trunks but was still operational.  Like a victim of a traffic accident, it had survived the initial trauma.  The next few hours would be critical to its survival.

After my wife returned to the car, my daughter and I lingered on the beach for a few final moments.  When we caught up with her, the car was unlocked, and my wife was leaning on the rear bumper wearing a cat that ate the canary smile that she could hardly contain.

“What?” I asked, braced for another cannonball through the mast.  

“The keys were not in my purse,” she said, breaking into a dazed chuckle.  “They were in the beach bag.  We had them all along.”

It never occurred to me to be angry.  I could only laugh. It would be another late return to Little Pink, but with the promise of lobster macaroni and cheese, a shower, and Sharkfest, I was in an affable move. That’s when the Prozac did its work.

“You know, it made us slow down and enjoy the moment,” I said.  “It was a gorgeous sunset.”

With the lengthy delay, we avoided heavy traffic and rolled back into Little Pink just before 9:oo.

I showered and settled onto the sofa ready for SharkFest around 10:oo.  That is when the next issue arose. Without getting overly graphic, our soon-to-be teenage daughter was afflicted by nature. She had not packed for the battle.  I was offered the choice of cooking dinner or venturing into Foley for provisions.  I took the latter.  My wife wrote out a detailed list of what I was to purchase, and I arrived at our retail savior, Walmart, twenty minutes prior to closing.   The Foley Supercenter was more like the Alabama northerners envision, and I’ll leave it at that.

I leap-frogged a pallet jack filled with bathroom sundries and made my way to the feminine hygiene section.  Wind-beaten and sunburned, I looked like I’d spent the day as the starboard tailer on Stars and Stripes.  I pulled out the piece of paper with my directions only to discover I’d grabbed the work order receipt for the locksmith.  Without my reading glasses, I squinted beneath the fluorescent lights, straining to make out the fine print on a box of tampons.  I grabbed something I believed to be workable and hustled across the store to the produce section to grab more limes.  

Over the intercom, a voice urged shoppers to bring their items to the registers for check-out.  I encountered a parade of Southern zombies, listlessly pushing overstuffed shopping carts and shuffling toward the checkout.  A large woman, falling out of a fuchsia sun dress like suds billowing from a spilled beer can, was not happy with the lack of open registers.

“Oh no,” she huffed. They better be opening up more shit than this!”

As if cued by the bawdy threat, an elderly employee quickly opened a half-dozen self-check machines and opened lanes.  I popped in with my items and was quickly on my way back to the cottage.  It was another late night, but my daughter was relieved, and the lobster mac-and-cheese was delightful.  

Our daughter became a teenager the next morning, a moment she’d been practicing for since she was eight years old.  Much of the pomp and circumstance had occurred prior to the trip though we had a small celebration at Little Pink before embarking upon our final beach day. In what we hoped to be a good omen, my phone was still functioning like normal.  

Road Warriors

The beach district of Gulf Shores is impressive.  It reminded me of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, but updated and still expanding.  The sand was a thick white powder, and the water was crisp and clean–at least by the week’s standards.  The shore was populous but not crowded and we set up our beach chairs, dug our toes into the sand, and relaxed. Finally.  It had taken some time, but we finally felt like we were on vacation.  My love of the sand, ocean, and warm weather had been rekindled.  I dreamed of staying a while.  If nothing else, it took my mind off the twelve-hour return trip that awaited us.  On the way back to the car, I overheard two teenage boys talking.

“Tonight, I’m getting crabs,” he said.

While my wife prepared heavenly ceviche nachos, I packed the car in the sweltering night.  We’d decided again to get most of our driving overnight.  And just like the Baltimore Colts in 1984, when darkness fell, we quietly slipped away in the night.