Four Days at the Beach

I now live as far from the coast as I ever have except for the years I attended Georgia Tech in Atlanta. I need my beach. Not being able to come down next weekend to celebrate Patten’s birthday, we headed south on Friday and spent 4 days at the Hotel Sheldon on Hollywood Beach, old but maintained. Betsy calls it the dodgy Hotel Sheldon.

Our plan was to go to his house Saturday night for dinner, but communication missed, and he had tickets for the first UM home football game. Instead, we joined him and Ryan for lunch (the usual Big Daddy’s hamburgers and fries), and they came to the beach Sunday morning for a swim and breakfast. The first 3 days, the water was warm and clear. Almost no waves. Like floating in a bathtub. Absolutely perfect. That morning, the wind was onshore, so waves and sargassum seaweed. Not as pleasant, but Patten spotted a baby tripletail fish while snorkeling in the weed.

Friday night we joined other cabin camping friends and supped at one couple’s home, seeing the beautiful screen room they added during this pandemic. I was finally able to deliver the solar powered glows the dark glass garden ball I had bought them over a year ago. Grant brought chicken potato curry he’d made the day before, which is always better reheated.

Sunday we went to the rechristened Dr. Von D Misell and Eula Johnson State Park (née John U. Lloyd State Park, named after the man who saved that beachfront end of the barrier island from development and condos, and whose widow was unhappy when it  was renamed) and had a picnic with Betsy’s friends from her kid’s playgroup.

She has thrown caution to the wind and came to see her 15-month-old grandson even though she doesn’t have the mandatory quarantine reservation that she needs to return to New Zealand. She’d been trying and trying to get one, which seems to be impossible. Like trying to get a cabin reservation at a Florida state park, but not knowing when any would be available to even try for. She hopes the NZ government will get its act together before her planned return in December, but it doesn’t seem likely. We can’t figure it out. They know how many tickets the airlines sell. That’s how many quarantine room they need. And the people have to pay for them, so the hotels have a guaranteed income, plus there aren’t any other tourist traveling. What’s the plan? In the mean time, Betsy is playing with grandkids and visiting friends. 

Our last night was interrupted by a fire alarm, thankfully false, but we dutifully trooped out. Unlikely that an old concrete 3-story hotel would go up in smoke, but we’d always preached to our children to believe the alarm. An opportunity to brag that we followed our own advice. The Hollywood fire rescue came and checked, declared all clear, so we went inside to hear the alarm go off again. Once again checked, safe to go back to our room. I was able to finish the chapter of the book I’d dozed off reading, then fell asleep to Grant and Betsy snoring.

When Mary and I were in London, the fire alarm went off in our hotel. She was in the shower, so I yelled to her to stop and throw on some clothes and get out. We ran down the stairs, meeting maids who were running up, but I insisted we follow the emergency exit signs. When we were on the street, we saw smoke coming out of an upper window. And rowdy German youths hanging out of other windows, calling down to their friends next to us. All a big party to them. Thank goodness it was a small fire the firefighters quickly put out.