How I Spent My Summer "Vacation"

I drove for just over 30 hours.

Okay, I did a bit more than that. You see, my friend Tim Hamblen was moving from the Chicago area to an Atlanta suburb. He had plenty of help at the origination point, where he had lived for years and developed plenty of friendships. But he knew almost no one in Atlanta. So, I volunteered my assistance and corralled our friends Kiehl and Mike. Tim, like Mike and me, is currently unemployed (thanks, U.S. economy!) but offered to help get us there by plane, train or whatever.

Kiehl offered up his car for the trip, if we "made a stop on the way" to visit his foster mother in North Carolina. Get our your atlas, if you have to, kiddies. Havelock, N.C. is in no way, shape or form "on the way" from Akron, OH to Atlanta, GA. Kiehl hates to drive and agreed to pay gas to Havelock (home of Cherry Point Marine Corp Air Station) if I would do the bulk of the driving.

Here's where things get a bit sticky. Kiehl wanted to extend our trip from four days to eight. For me, that meant paying double what I planned to put Jake in the kennel. I tried to dissuade him or at least shorten the trip, but he hadn't visited his "Mom" in years and really wanted to have a few days with her. (He just really didn't want to drive.)

Finally, I agreed and we set off for North Carolina. The drive to Havelock would take just over 11 hours. The drive from Havelock to Atlanta was another 8 hours. And then, the drive from Atlanta back home was about 11.5 hours.

I could make a long story boring with lots of details of the trip in Kiehl's car with no air conditioning in 100+ degree weather, but you get the idea. Not fun. And Kiehl not only disliked driving, he flat out refused to give me a break, other than gas/food stops. Live and learn. Fortunately, I really enjoy driving.

Kiehl's "Mom" was a gracious hostess, although her boyfriend, Bud, was a bit on the odd side. We spent the majority of our time here:

on Atlantic Beach, which is actually closer to Morehead City than Havelock. The ocean was cool and inviting and off-duty Marines frolicked in the waves every day.

I have always been hesitant to do more than wade in the ocean. I think the film Jaws did real psychological damage to me as a youngster. My first few days on Atlantic Beach did nothing to assuage that inner panic. The first day, Kiehl and I went for a nice, long walk down the beach, ankle-deep in saltwater. About a half-mile away from the public beach, we watched as a couple of fishermen hauled in a big catch. Their prize? A hammerhead shark. Not a big one, by any means, but a man-biter nonetheless. No swimming for Timmy that day.

The second day we went early in the morning to collect the best shells. Just a few dozen feet away from the public beach, I spotted what looked like a purple condom, left by the tide and rapidly drying out on the sand. As I watched, part of the condom moved. Yes, it was a jellyfish and the beach was littered with them. No swimming for moi that day, either.

Finally, on the third day I came upon the realization that hundreds of people were swimming all around me and no one was dying horribly. So I went in. And I loved it. Playing in the waves, being beaten by the surf, tasting the salt water -- all of it was a primal delight. And I survived. I didn't hesitate to brave the ocean for the rest of our time in North Carolina.

Aside: the seafood in and around that area was divine! At the recommendation of Kiehl's mom, we went to the oddly-named Sanitary Restaurant and Fish Market in Morehead City and had what was easily of one the best cooked seafood meals of my life.

The drive between Havelock and Atlanta was uneventful. Hot, but uneventful.

Finally, we arrived at Tim's new house in the Atlanta suburb of Lithonia. I knew we had a problem as soon as we pulled up to the house. The house sat well off the road, down a steep grade. The driveway wasn't all the long, but it was at a 45 degree angle. Power and communication lines were strung over the driveway, making it impossible for anything particularly tall to go down the drive. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad? Maybe the professionally-hired driver could back down the steep grade?

Alas, no. Tim hadn't hired a moving van or a truck. He had hired a tractor-trailer and packed it COMPLETELY full of furniture and household belongings, each of which would have to be carried down the steep driveway from the street, with another trip up the drive to fetch the next load or item in 100 degree temperatures (hotter inside the truck.)

"We're fragged," I told Kiehl.

And yet, we managed. The driver Tim hired was immeasurably helpful and between Tim, his S.O. Danny, Kiehl and I, we unloaded the trailer successfully and no one was permanently damaged. Even with my dodgy back, I managed to work and sweat as hard as anyone and get the job done. And Tim was good as his word, giving Kiehl a check for gas and me a check to help defray the cost of Jake's kennel bill.

After unloading and moving some of their belongings into the house, it was time for Kiehl and I to drive home. This drive was the worst. With no air conditioning, we had to drive with the windows down, which was incredibly noisy. At one point, something flew into my eye, making it tear up and snap shut while driving at highway speeds (70MPH legally, of course.) Despite being a nurse, Kiehl offered no assistance, seemed completely unconcerned by my cries of pain or our weaving on the road and still refused to do any of the driving. As I said before: lesson learned.

We made it home in one piece, separated our belongings and went our ways. I picked Jake up at the kennel and returned to my life. And all was right with the world.

So, what did I do for my summer vacation? I drove... a lot. I swam in the ocean and walked the beach and admired toned bodies glistening in the sand. I worked my ass off until my clothes were so heavy with dried sweat and bodysalt that I had to put them in a sealed plastic bag. I slept the exhausted, satisfied sleep of someone who had genuinely accomplished something. All-in-all, not a bad way to spend a few days.

Note to self: no more long roadtrips with Kiehl. And what, you might ask, happened to Mike? He arrived a few days after the heavy moving was finished and helped with painting and cleaning. Lucky sod.