Not long after my blading tumbles, I stuffed my suitcase tight–extra band-aids in tow–and set off for the deep-South metro of Savannah, Georgia. Nearly every year, my aunt and two cousins accompany my family (minus my dad) on some sort of travelling adventure, but looking into the future, this particular trip was most likely the last with the whole crew.
The entirety of our stay was on Savannah’s Tybee Island beach community in a large, brick bakery…a renovated one, that is. From the days of Fort Screven, combat and gunfire, coastal port necessity and hungry, dough-seeking soldiers… 
Since the time of plundering pirates, Tybee Island has been a base of war, an infantry refuge pockmarked with battle. Now, though, the island is just your quirky, little beachy hideaway, a place where you’ll find barefoot grocers, throngs of feral cats, but also the serenity and calm of a saline ocean breeze and swaying low-country grasses.
Our dwelling place alone was pretty much the best thing ever… From the open-floor and brick-layed walls to the countless whimsical decorations and obvious attention to detail, the bakery was teeming with beachy-Southern charm. Yet it was also delightfully kitschy. It possessed a borderline-tacky appeal…a plastic-pink-flamingo campy quality that made us love it all the more.
Outside the confines of our happy home, our band of seven occupied ourselves lounging long hours on the sand, experimenting the local shrimp, playing Texas Hold’em until midnight, and endlessly riding the salty waves on cheap-foam boogie boards. Life on the island was good. And almost every day, I even went on little adventures of my own–usually long and curious walks through town or along the shore until my feet became exhausted and persuaded me to finally turn around.
Another thing I found enjoyment in was rising before the rest of the household, pulling on my black-and-raspberry trainers, and going for a run while the world was waking up. Most times, I chose to run along the beach, soles slapping the water-packed sand, morning rays dancing on the sparkling ocean peaks, the steamy, salt-filled air washing my lungs with every breath. On one particularly ambitious morning, my mom and I decided we’d wake up early enough to see the sunrise. We dragged our tired bodies out of bed and scampered the two blocks down to the beach. And suddenly the sleepy, gray sand took on an orange glow, and there it was–the sun–straight ahead on the horizon. The blood-red ball crept up slowly from its quiet slumber–from the dark and creeping hours of night when it was Moon’s turn to keep watch on the dreaming world. How lovely–how spectacular–that sunrise was. 
That blazing sphere of light that seems to daily set the earth into motion. I’ve think I’ve always preferred the sunrise to the sunset. This is simply because really anyone can see a sunset… Even a couch-potato, video-gaming junkie just has to peer for a second out the blinds of his room-cave while he waits for his game to load to catch a sunset. But to see a sunrise…now that takes a little more effort. Getting up in the wee hours to witness this secret the universe seems to possess and is only willing to share with those who choose to see it.
The trip was so grand and so positively lovely, that to explain everything would take up an unnecessarily large amount of words and space. But I certainly do have some highlights that, left unmentioned, would really be a shame. A few times throughout the trip, we made the 12-mile trek out to inner Savannah, a gorgeous city with history and character oozing from its pores.
The city is broken up into over 20 unique squares, each one beautiful with its scattering of Spanish-moss-adorned trees and boasting of its own piece of historical significance.
We were able to explore these squares on our own and also by means of tour-led trolley–one fitted with a gregarious guide named Hollywood who found particular enjoyment calling us “Cheeseheads.” While in the city, we dined well, too. One boiling afternoon we had ice cream from a shop ranked in the world’s top-ten, and another evening, we feasted at Paula Deen’s famous Lady and Sons Restaurant…two words: butter y’all.
And even one balmy night, we took our grub down to the beach, the sand cooling beneath the stars and only a small lantern flickering on our beach towel “table” to see where we were jabbing our forks.
Though the part of the trip that will probably go down as my absolute favorite is…the kayaking expedition. On every vacation or travels my family decides to pursue, my mom makes sure that, no matter what, kayaking will somehow be worked into the itinerary. Her overwhelming enthusiasm and gung-ho push for it each and every trip is almost too much for people to bear sometimes…because NO ONE actually likes kayaking THAT much, right? But every time, we shrug our shoulders, roll our eyes, and oblige to my mom’s one desire. And every time, we have more fun than we could’ve ever thought possible. Out on the banks of the Atlantic, we paddled away, having a glorious time in the waves and shine. But I have to say the best part was all the dolphin friends we made along the way. We literally saw pod after pod as they glided beneath the surface, the smooth, graphite fins popping up right alongside our kayaks as we tooled along. ‘Yaking with dolphins…doesn’t get much better than that.
I’ll miss the molasses drawl. I’ll miss the line where the sand kisses the endless sea. I’ll even miss the wet and blistering temperatures. But now I’m home. And it’s still summer.
And I am content.
xanditwasallyellow 