Sunday, July 14, 2013

Fripp Island

So, we just got back from our annual vacation at Fripp Island, South Carolina.  Mama and Daddy started this tradition about 30 years ago, squeezing me and my two sisters into the back seat of our Jetta, with a trunk full of bathing suits, towels, clothes, food, and books, and we'd suffer through a hot and cramped six hour car ride, stopping only ONCE for lunch and fuel.

And the lunch was yucky.  Daddy thought that the greatest place in the world to stop was a little old place appropriately named, "Sweats BBQ."  That place smelled like sweat. It was hot and full of flies and old people. And on top of that, when I was a little girl, I collected pigs, and I did not want to eat one.  I hated BBQ.

The back of my legs would stick to the booth, and I would eat a few soggy French fries, and swallow a few sips of Coca-Cola, and wonder why my family couldn't be normal and go to McDonald's. The restrooms at Sweats were not appealing either, so I never went, which is why I only drank a few sips of Coca-Cola the whole, hot trip.  Did I ever tell you I was a brat sensitive child?

My children have no idea what car air conditioners were like in the 70's and 80's.  They were called "windows" back then, and they blew hot air in your face, and got bugs, rocks, and dirt into your eyes the whole way to your destination.  You could arrive at the beach with two scratched corneas, and think nothing of it.

The seat belts that we weren't required to wear by law, but by mom, always cooked while you exited the car during the ONE stop that your daddy allowed, and when you snapped yourself back up into the car seat, the red- hot steel buckle actually branded your skin like you were being driven to the cattle range. 

The seatbelts weren't retractable, and mama always knew if you were letting your tummy out when she tightened it up for you.  Thank goodness we never had a wreck on our way, because we would've been chopped in two by the safety features of 1981.

And like I mentioned, I was a brat sensitive child.  I have fair skin.  I get hot easily.  I burn.  I don't like sand.  I don't like salt water.  I actually hate the beach.  There, I said it.  It's true.  I am a mountain girl.  I like the woods.  Plus, Fripp Island is boring.  There is nothing there, really.  It's remote and exclusive.  It's quiet.  

So, as a little girl, the horrible, hot journey might have felt worth it if we were heading some place I thought would be fun.  But it wasn't, so I was sad the whole way there, the entire week there, and the whole way back home, I'd feel betrayed that I had been made to endure such "torture."  The rest of my family loved every minute of the annual Fripp Trip.  I was the odd girl out.  They thought something must be wrong with me not to love it as much as they did.

Now, my sisters and I are married with children of our own, and I imagine Daddy is resting on an eternal beach in heaven.  Mama goes the extra mile to make sure my sisters and I can always get together each summer, at a place that is special to our childhood.  Like it or not, it's part of who I am, and I go simply out of duty and honor to my family.  I would say that I "drag" my kids along with me, but that would be inaccurate, because this yearly trip requires no such thing as "dragging."  I just mention the word, "beach," and my husband and kids start packing their suitcases.  

Our cars are bigger, roomier, and real air conditioner even blows through vents pointed at the back seats.  Sweats BBQ is no longer there, and it's weird how I miss it.  I would pay $1,000.00 to eat there now, just one more time.  I wouldn't complain about the smell, or the lack of central air conditioning.  I'd probably drink a whole Coca-Cola and pee in the bathroom. 

I feel sorta sad for my children that we stop at places like McDonald's, where you can get the exact same chemical- cheese- burger-like- meat- substance any where in the world.  I would like them to appreciate that there are weird places that make their own "Award winning sauce" from scratch by people who actually get up at 5:00 am to stoke the fire your food will be smoking on.

It's really too bad that it has taken me more than 3 decades to understand "Fripp Island."  I almost didn't go this year.  I threaten not to go every year, but everyone knows I'll show up any way.  And I do.  But this year, I made the decision it will be my last trip there.  I figure, hey, I'll be celebrating a milestone birthday next summer, and by golly, I should be old enough to do things my way.

But this decision, this pact I made with myself, in my heart, really changed my perspective.  Knowing it would be my last time, I drank everything in.  I opened myself up.  Instead of resisting everything, I embraced everything.  Every time I did anything, I reminded myself, "This will be the last time you will do this."  And it made me sad.  Very sad.  But it also made me careful.  I treated the moments as if they were treasures.

Many of my favorite childhood memories are from Fripp Island.  Like the time when I was about 15 years old, and my family witnessed an entire nest of sea turtles hatch.  We stood guard, for what seemed like hours, under a full moon rising, as clumsy, adorable, tiny turtles made their way to the ocean.  It was magical.  When I've ever had the need to meditate for pain control, like during my five all natural childbirths, or during unfortunate dental procedures, I go back to that night, and I watch the turtles in my mind. 

Life is like that.  My least favorite place on earth is also very special to me.  I think it all depends on how I choose to see it.  If I seek treasure, I will likely find it.




   

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