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There’s something magical about winter at the beach. The streets are quiet, the shoreline is bare. You can walk entire stretches of sand and not say good morning to one soul. You let the ocean pulse through everything inside of you. This is yours—this expanse of sand, this water lapping the shore, kissing your feet. Your toes go numb in the chilly Atlantic, you arch your back and drink the salt in the air. The wind bites against your cheek and you let it, because moments like those are precious and fragile and slip through your fingers if you’re not careful, if you don’t hold onto them with everything you have. There’s also something magical about the hint of summer coming again. The weather warms, clothes are shed, and before you know it there are more footprints in the sand than there were before. Tourists with hunched backs comb through the beach, searching for the perfect seashell. Hair becomes sticky with sweat, the wind refreshes instead of bites. Soon you’re dodging children chasing after seagulls, horizontal bodies begging to be kissed by the sun. The smell of coconut oil is thick in the air, music thumps from a too loud speaker, and this too, is beautiful. There’s something magical about living in a place that others long to come to. Just think, you live in that place that someone has saved money and taken vacation days and dreamed about visiting. To them it’s a whirlwind week of glory they will post about on social media so all their friends can comment: “Jealous!” Your impulse is to guard this land as a secret, not share it with anyone, but you know there is enough for everyone. There’s always enough love to go around. There’s no reason not to spread the joy that this island brings you. Like the ocean ebbs and flows, your life has a rhythm to it. It must or else it would stagnate, grow stale and moldy. You accept this flow— isolation, then slowly, masses of people—knowing what is on the other side of it. Your secret solitary few months. You keep those chill, winter months inside of yourself—a little gift— and go enjoy your hot, pulsing, still beautiful island with the others, the others who love it too. 30 TYBEE BEACHCOMBER | MAY 2017 By Hollie Sessoms For starters, no. And why would you want to? Camping is the very last thing anyone should ever be caught doing. If you really insist on sleeping miserably outside while “roughing” it, here are some pointers, NAY! A walk through! Continuing on, I would recommend heading over to Little Tybee to camp. This barren island is not equipped for human life. There is nothing there. Comcast has not bothered to wire Little Tybee for internet, and there is no chance of being able to charge my cellphone. Here’s what I do: To get to Little Tybee I must first acquire a sailing vessel. While most Tybians are too drunk to own boats, usually someone’s parents have one. I am usually able to convince them it’s worth their while to use their time and gas to get me off this liveable island to the uninhabited and undesirable Little Tybee. I am confident this achievement stems from being extremely persuasive (or whiny). Now before I head out, it’s vital to check the tide. While most locals would tell one to go at high tide, that is less than sound advice. I’ve always found there’s no thrill in leaving at high tide. It’s not in true islander fashion until I’m stuck in a cockeyed boat on the sand bar cursing and googling Sea Tow’s number. Once the tide returns and I’m back in the water, I press on! When I arrive at Little Tybee it is imperative to set up a base, usually adjacent to my crapping hole. While I live my life day in and day out ignoring the fact that other people poop, and hoping they ignore this same bit of trivia about me, camping seems to embrace this bodily function. There’s no hiding one’s own BM as I shuffle through camp with toilet paper and a shovel over my arm. There’s no thrill in guessing what I’m doing just beyond those trees. Everyone knows, and they’re all talking about it. Am I proud? I shouldn’t be. Once I’ve left my deposit, it is important to remember there is no running water. So I wipe my hands on my shorts and rejoin the group. There are some people that recommend setting up a tent, but since I lack in the hand-eye coordination department, this usually does not happen. If you’re engineeringly challenged like I am, try sleeping under the stars. For those unable to capture this concept in their minds, picture the last time you drunkenly passed out on your porch. Ok, that’s what camping under the stars is like. The best part of sleeping without a tent is insects. While I pay an exterminator a small fortune to come spray my home once a month, I choose to make a vacation of living with the same bugs I have put hits on all year long. Another issue with camping is food. While many people become aroused at the thought of catching, killing, and cooking one’s own meals, I generally become aggravated at my inability to hunt a wild corndog, or pack of wild corn dogs. Pair this with the interesting tidbit that cheesey breadsticks and ranch dressing do not grow under rocks. So I’m left to stare in anger up at the trees, wondering if that’s where Doritos come from - all while never being able to climb said tree to find out. This because I have the physique and stamina of a modern day John Goodman. After walking around looking up at trees, fantasizing about giant soft pretzels with just a dab of mustard, it is vital to twist my ankle in the hole where my camp fire should be, but is not. Making a fire, although a great concept, is something you will not find on my resume under special talents. Unfortunately, I was a special child and I was not permitted near fire. Now in my adult years I struggle to conjure it up whether from a match, a lighter, or by sensually rubbing two rocks together. Unless it’s a stove fire I just can’t figure out how it works (unfortunately I have an electric stove so most fires are unintentional). Factoring in my short temper, and even shorter attention span, there’s a lot of wind on Little Tybee, which prohibits fire from being born. After much thought I think this wind could be corrected with the precise placement of some Billboards. I am coming to terms with the fact that fire was not meant to happen outdoors. The final reason to avoid camping is sheer and utter boredom. What do people do for fun? My imagination is dead, and trying to relax in a hostile environment takes too much energy. I don’t have time for that. The thought of hiking sounds as thrilling as driving to Staples. It’s more tedious than exciting. I could fish, but it is highly unlikely I will catch anything. And if Mother Nature did present me with a fish, I wouldn’t exactly know what to do with it. Also, when I wade in tidal pools, really big, mean, nasty ugly crabs bite my toes and the pain can only be described in medical terminology as hurting like a son of a bitch. We were wondering if it’s possible to camp on the beach at Tybee Island, do you have any advice?


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