Beyond the Bod: Tybee Time

Vacations, especially those to the beach, never last long enough. The last four days back home in Statesboro and at Tybee passed as quickly as a mere couple of hours. But it was a wonderful weekend. Mom and I celebrated our successful completion of the Whole30 with a trip to Tybee Island. I anticipated wearing light jackets and lounging on a blanket on the beach, soaking up Vitamin D while catching up on reading. However, it was so cold and windy that we only stepped foot onto the sand one time. Though bundled in layers, gloves, and scarves, our bones still froze.

So what’s the alternative when it’s too cold to enjoy the beach? Shopping, of course! Our first stop was the Southern Women’s Show at the Savannah Convention Center. The auditorium overflowed with Southern belles and vendors desperate to make a sale. It only took .5 seconds for momma and me to become overwhelmed, but we methodically made our way up and down the aisles of booths, politely declining invitations to try magic mops and pheromone sprays. Just when I thought we’d make it through without having to adamantly refuse a vendor’s advances, a man with long, whispy gray hair and clothed in mud splotched duds grabbed momma’s arm.

He slathered her hand in moist volcanic ash, touting its detoxifying effects. Mom tried to recoil, but the man caked on more mud and commented on the gorgeous light radiating from her eyes. I giggled, and he noticed me for the first time. “Oh, are you with her? I guess yours do too if you’re with her.” He grabbed a warm wash cloth and wiped the mud off mom’s hands. I won’t lie; the difference in her two hands was pretty astonishing. The ash cleansed hand was bright and glowing. Her fingers were slim, natural puffiness gone, and the line and wrinkles of her palm had evaporated.

“You see. You don’t have to believe what I say. You can see it for yourself. It works. You can use it all over your body. Face. Belly. Legs. Butt,” he said and started quoting prices. Mom was ready to walk away, but I was hooked (sucker that I am). “Here, I’ll do yours,” he said grabbing my hand, “since you’re with her.”

We walked away from the booth with a jar of volcanic ash each.

We made another great find of flavored olive oils and balsamic vinegars at another booth. We sampled blood orange olive oil with chocolate balsamic vinegar, garlic mushroom olive oil with pecan praline balsamic vinegar, and basil olive oil with strawberry balsamic vinegar. We both could have died happy right then and there. I have never tasted anything so delicious in my life as those oil and vinegar combos. We insisted to every passerby that they try a sample too. Those who refused, we tackled and forced it down their throats (not really, but I thought about it). We left that booth with a bottle of all six flavors.

Though we were celebrating the Whole30, we definitely did not eat according to the Whole30 while on vacation. We enjoyed creamy shrimp and corn cakes, balsamic glazed sweet potato fries, crab cake sandwiches, rich steak “Oscar”, and crème brule. And for breakfast each morning we had chocolate.

Breakfast of champions

On our last night momma and I decided to try the North Beach Grill near the lighthouse. I could’ve sworn I’d eaten there before, and that it was a nice place with a charming, breezy atmosphere perfect for tourists. Instead it was a run down dive frequented by locals (and we think several lesbians, too, as one woman told mom- with a much too mischievous grin- that she was so hot she was about to take her shirt off). The shack was dimly lit and loud, and a server rushed by saying he’d be right with us and that we’d “better get a drink”. Blue paint flaked off the table tops, and our uneven chairs were undoubtedly salvaged from the dump. Christmas lights and neon beer signs decorated the knotty wood walls. Steps away from the screened porch door the waves rippled up the sand. With every sip of my Reisling, I became more and more chatty, spilling to my momma all the inside jokes and mundane memories that make me smile most.

I adored every minute of that dinner in that lopsided beach shanty. The food was delicious and the company, my favorite. I’ve always had a silly longing to eat at a rundown coastal dive favored only by local hodads. It seemed like an essential part of beach life, and I couldn’t call myself a true beach bum until I’d experienced it. And finally, with my momma, there on Tybee Island, I did. Laugh if you will, but it was everything I’d hoped it’d be.

Time spent with my momma and sister (who dropped by on Sunday) keeps me young at heart, but unfortunately I realized this weekend that I have crossed the threshold into “old” territory. I submit as evidence:

1. Getting in the bed at 8:00 and falling asleep by 8:30, despite being on vacation.

2. Achieving a hangover after consuming only two 5oz glasses of wine.

3. Waking, showering, packing, and being ready to head out the door 4 hours before checkout (without being prompted!).

There’s no room for dispute; I’m an old fart at 28.

Yeah, vacations aren’t ever long enough. Neither are trips home. I always return to North Georgia homesick and yearning for flat cotton fields, gnat kisses, early morning TV with mom in her bed, an afternoon hour spent on Mamaw’s couch, a Cracker Barrel breakfast with my sister-in-law, my daddy’s infectious smile, and conversations with my often inappropriate siblings. But I’m thankful for the time I do get to spend down there and for opportunities like this weekend that bring me closer to my mom and remind me of what an extraordinary lady she is. She’s my idol, and I love her.

I hope you all had a lovely weekend too. See you back in the grind!