It’s that time of year again…winter has finally had enough of us and we of it…the snow has melted, the birds have started chirping again at an ungodly hour every morning. Yes, spring has sprung and we all know what that means…pack the bags, load up the car and join the mad race to the coast. Spring break…blue skies, warm sun on your face, gorgeous beaches, gorgeous people and an unending supply of food and drink.
If you’re not laughing now, you should be…we all know what spring break really is. Blistering sun, crowded beaches, up at the crack of dawn just to find a tiny spot on the beach with every other idiot we had the unpleasant experience of sitting in traffic with the day before…and the people, ugly, loud, foul tempered wearing a swimsuit three sized too small for a butt that is five sizes too large…do the math, it is not pretty. And the food and drink…overpriced, watered down but still enough alcohol to fuel a slew of bad decisions.
But no. No, no, no. Not for me. Not this year. I was smarter than that. Private…secluded…quaint…peaceful…avoid the crowds…they all stood out in the travel brochure and a quick chat with my travel agent, assurance that the last chicken fiasco wouldn’t have a sequel, I was off to what promised to be a welcome break from winter and work. The next day…
My god, why is it so hot. It’s barely mid morning and the temperatures have hit the mid nineties…I walked around…private and secluded…yes, because every living thing had died of heat stroke. Peaceful and quiet…more like eerie and disturbing. How can any place be this hot but this bleak…a week…a week in this hell hole and I didn’t see the sun once. 100% humidity but no rain…let that one sink in for a moment.
There were no beaches…just rocks, sharp, jagged rocks at that…there was no air conditioning…the only food on this quaint little hell hole of an island came from a greasy shack that had to predate modern health codes by a few decades. And beer. God, I hate beer. Well, there you have it…my spring break. No screaming children, no old, bald, overweight men in speedos, no women, gorgeous or otherwise, in tiny bikinis. Just me…the heat…the humidity…and sweat.
So, if you want a suggestion for you next “beach” trip, well let’s just say this may not be your cup of tea. But, who am I to judge if a week in the bleak, disturbing town of Falling Tide sounds like the vacation of a lifetime to you.
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