Sanded In

So it’s my day off, and I’m heading to the beach with Beth, the friend, and Hershey, the dog. We are at Hull Bay, one of the only dog-friendly beaches on island. It looks busy for a Thursday, and there are no obvious parking spots. I drive to the end of the beach before I find a space that looks easy and empty. But as soon as I pull onto the sand, I suspect we may be in trouble. The ridge between the road and the beach is further than I expected, which I worry will keep me from backing out, especially since sand doesn’t offer much in the way of traction.

No sooner do I exit my car than a pretty blonde mom in a white pickup stops on the road and says, sounding concerned, “Oooh, that’s the stuck spot.”

“I had a feeling …” I say.

“You’ll be okay,” she says unconvincingly, “Just think positive.”

“Just think positively,” I correct her grammar in my head.

“We’ll be fine,” Beth says, heading down the beach to find a landing spot.

I guess we’ll worry about it later.

Later comes, and we discover that, sure enough, the car’s going nowhere. My tires spin uselessly, only digging deeper into the sand. It’s quite similar to being stuck in an icy Minnesota snow bank, except it’s not dangerously cold outside, and I’m facing the ocean. Damn, why did I leave behind the small shovel that lived in my trunk expressly for these moments? I guess I figured it wouldn't be needed in the tropics.

Fortunately, after it becomes obvious that we’re stuck, it takes only a couple minutes for multiple men to offer assistance. Hands-on Beth jumps in to problem-solve too. I always feel useless in these situations, being dimwitted when it comes to manipulating matter. Especially matter that is heavy in nature.

It's determined that we must place something under the front tires for traction enough to get us over the cement ledge between the sand and the road.

A Dude-like character approaches and tells us we're not going anywhere without a four-wheel drive vehicle pulling us out first. I tend to agree with him, but everyone wants to try without it first. I dig the jack out of the trunk, and we use it to lift the front frame. Then we place some rocks under the tires and lay boards on top of them for traction. (The boards are conveniently there, probably left over from previous stuck incidents.)

Of course, none of this is my idea.

We finish this task, and The Dude re-approaches,

“I got a truck coming.”

(From where did these helpful souls come?!)

The truck somehow attaches itself by rope to my car's posterior in a manner they promise will not rip off the bumper. With the truck pulling and five of us pushing and Beth behind the wheel, we get the car out of the sand and onto the road.

Beth lays on the horn when the car starts to move. A celebratory, elephantine burst of cheer, I assume, but she later tells me that her hand, in fact, was on the horn accidentally. Anyhow, it works in the moment.

“Good karma points to you all,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

And we gone.

These are good people here.
I am blessed.