We vacationed at the beach this weekend, just the teen, the tween and I. Hubs stayed home with the toddler to give me a little break. I was under orders to relax and enjoy my “off” time. You know, with only two kids to be in charge of.
Yesterday I decided to take a drive on the beach. This is not unusual in Ocean Shores, people do it all the time. People also get stuck in the sand because they don’t know HOW to drive on the beach. I could hear Hubs voice in my head, “don’t slow down if you hit the soft sand” and repeated it over and over. And over.
So there we were, driving happily along, enjoying the sound of the waves, the ocean breeze, the smell of the water, without a care in the world.
But then the compact sand I was driving on suddenly wasn’t so compact anymore. And I panicked. And I stopped the car. And I got stuck.
I don’t do well in this kind of situation.
I knew enough (ha!) to not keep spinning my tires, this would dig me in deeper. But this is where my vast knowledge stopped and my panic set in. Which freaked out the tween, because he feeds off other people’s emotions (so like me he is).
I looked around for help, and saw a Tahoe driving to a group nearby, filled to the brim with a burly dad and his burly teenage boys. They all jumped out to help, yelling instructions to each other in Spanish. They tried (with my teens help) to push me out, yelling “give it more gas.” This just dug the back tire in deeper. They tried to hook me up to the Tahoe and pull me out, but didn’t have a strong enough chain and it broke. Eventually they gave up and went over to join the rest of their family flying kites.
We called the beach tow truck, cringing at the $250 my stupidity was going to cost us.
And while we were laying on the warm sand, soaking up the sun and wishing the car would dig itself out of its damn spot, a pick-up truck stopped and asked us if we needed help.
Bless this scary looking, toothless, burly man. Who stops to help a woman and her two kids stranded on the beach. With no way to escape.
He pulls a rusty chain out of the truck and hooks it up to my car. The first attempt results in a very scary noise coming from my car. I had visions of the undercarriage being ripped out. At this point, what am I to do? I freak out (in my head. I’m sure I totally played off the calm and collected beach regular on the outside). I glance at the teen and notice his slightly panicked expression. I couldn’t even look at the tween, because I’m that good of a mom.
One of the teens that had tried to help earlier ran over and asked if we needed help; he and my not so burly teenager (dressed in his button down, slacks and vest – yeah, I know) pushed while I GENTLY gave it enough gas to help it move, but not enough to get the tires spinning.
Success! Yay!
I had the teen call the tow truck driver to cancel (because I wasn't going to stop the car again for anything). He had apparently just arrived to the scene and was not terribly happy that we were not still stranded. Big fat bummer for him.
We drove the rest of the way on the beach slowly, but not stopping, as a fog rolled in off the ocean that gave us about 15 feet of visibility. And when we reached the turn off to get back to the real road we all cheered.
I vowed to never again drive on the beach. Or mindlessly spin my tires. Or dig myself in deeper when I know better. I vowed not to curse the people who are just standing around flying kites, because sometimes they can be helpful.
And I was thankful for the ice cold bottle of Stoli I was driving towards.
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