Another Day, Another Sand Dollar - Day 4

Day 4*
I have learned that camping in an SUV is NOT like camping in an RV. Two big issues are: 1. Climate control; and, 2. Getting out of the vehicle in the morning.

It got cold last night. Real cold. And I’m beginning to suspect that an air mattress may be a good bed during the summer, but in colder temps, it’s just a cold air conductor that sits conveniently under your thick warm blanket, up against your jammies. Additionally, with the car windows closed, all that exhaling has nowhere to go. So, come morning, you awake to a full-body chill, augmented by completely fogged over windows caused by an in-car atmospheric humidity level of ~173%. More tests will be conducted tonight.

As for exiting the vehicle, it’s not like an RV where you walk to your door, open it like a human being and then descend metal stairs to your upside-down pineapple Welcome mat.

I can’t even open the back hatch of my Pilot and emerge gracefully. Instead, I have to pop open the back passenger door, grab the hand hold over the opening to drag my lower body toward the door, then (still hanging on to the handle) slowly curl my legs down toward the freezing-yet-still-wet dirt next to the car. It’s like I’m slowly fighting my way out of a massive blue metal chrysalis and when I finally emerge, I’m still a giant, dumpy caterpillar in pajamas. And then I wave to other campers as they walk back to their RVs.

Fig. A: Sure, they wake up wet and slimy too, but they don’t seem to care.

After a quick shower to wash off all the humidity, I headed west across St. George Island, then north across Mr. Patton’s bridge toward Eastpoint, then across the mouth of the East Bay to Apalachicola. I was hankering for breakfast and coffee on this chilly Sunday morning, and Google Maps showed lots of restaurants in the small town.

Apalachicola is a quaint little waterfront hamlet, eminently walkable, with a some very posh looking shops and restaurants alongside abandoned wharf warehouses and structures. It’s got palm trees, a museum, historic buildings and churches… about the only thing it does not have, on Sundays anyway, is anyone else in the town but you. It’s like Chick-fil-A bought the entire town and are test-scaling their approach to doing business.

Fig. B: No shopping on Sunday, maybe be some on Monday…

I finally found the Biscuit Factory, which is more like a hole in the wall that you can’t go in. Instead, the very nice folks inside the hole make delicious breakfast biscuit sandwiches and sell them to you outside the hole. I munched my bacon, egg and cheese biscuit on a picnic table sitting next to the place, then took a walk around town, verifying that someone had apparently pulled the fire alarm and every Apalachicolan had cleared out.

Unexpectedly, I stumbled across a little shop called The Pearl that was sticking its finger in the eye of Our Lord and Savior by selling stuff on a Sunday. After walking through the door and finding I had not been struck dead, I bought Stacy some sea glass earrings and a pendant and headed back to St. George Island State Park to go shelling. Stacy values good shells over jewelry, and I was confident that God allows waves to deposit shells on the beach, even on Sundays.

St. George Island is a barrier island, 28 miles long and no wider than one mile. The southwestern third is the Cape St. George Island State Reserve, and the northeastern third is the St. George Island State Park, which is where I was staying. In between those two state parks is the town and a bunch of beach houses.

Fig. C: This is where I’m talking about

The St. George State Park ranger recommended the Gulf side of the island for shelling, suggesting I drive as far down the road as I could, park in the last beach access parking lot, then walk on the beach as far northeast as I could to improve my chances of finding good shells.

Fig. D: Park Ranger: “Drive down that road as far as you can, park, then walk down the beach as far as you can, and you might find something.”

Fortunately some less cold weather was moving in, at least during the day. I parked, changed into shorts and a sweatshirt, walked down to the water, turned left and put my head down, looking for shells.

Fig. E: One square foot of beach. Looking for shells along miles of this beach put my OCD meds to the test.

While my OCD medication does a good job, I still found myself walking 0.1 mph as I scoured the sand. After about a quarter mile of picking up some fairly nice shells, my attention was rewarded with a FULL sand dollar – the Holy Grail of shelling (aside from sea glass and a full conch shell). Call it the Fairly Holy Grail, I guess.

I carefully dropped the sand dollar in my bathing suit pocket, keeping it safely away from the other shells I was collecting in a bag. Another tenth of a mile and ANOTHER full sand dollar. I tucked it away with the first and continued my search.

After about 2 hours walking up the beach and back, I’d found lots and lots of pretty shells that Stacy would love, but I was most excited about the FIVE full sand dollars I’d come across, all of which were squirreled away in my pocket. I imagined presenting them to Stacy when I got home, maybe putting them into a display frame to hang on the wall.

As I reached the Pilot in the parking lot, I’d already worked out how I’d safely store and transport the sand dollars. I reached into my pocket to transfer the treasures to a plastic container and…. every. damn. sand. dollar. was. broken. into. many. pieces.

ALL OF THEM.

It may be hard to convince a cashier to break a hundred-dollar bill but, if you want to break a sand dollar, just stick it in your pocket.

I honestly was heartbroken.

How did I not know you don’t put sand dollars in your pocket?? Why hadn’t anyone warned me???

When I ask a park ranger where the best shelling is, the first thing the park ranger ought to say is, “I’ll tell you in a second BUT FIRST if you find any full sand dollars DO NOT put them in your pocket!” and THEN he can tell me whether to search the Gulf side or the sound side.

I called Stacy to break the bad news. She seemed genuinely touched by my efforts and my heartbreak, while gently bemused that I though putting sand dollars in my pocket was a good idea.

I decided to drown (or at least wash) my sorrows in beer and playoff football. [Retroactive note: even though these posts are not real time, obviously regardless what year I took this trip, the Kansas City Chiefs were playing]. I drove “downtown,” to the settled part of St. George Island, and in a Piggly Wiggly asked the cashier where the best place was to watch footba…

“Paddy’s,” she responded before I could finish the question. So I headed to Paddy’s.

Next post: PADDY’S!


* Moment of Truthiness: I’m already back from my walkabout. In fact, it occurred LAST year about this time. I was going to post about it after the trip, but I sort of ran out of steam. So now I’m going to pretend I’m posting about my walkabout real-time, just like a reality show pretends to be reality.

Take the whole trip! I’ll even cover the gas!

TravelChucktree frogs, shells, sand dollars, Apalachicola, Easton, Blue SundayComment