There’s something about hitting the road for the beach that makes me forget every adult responsibility I’ve ever had. Laundry? Don’t know her. Dishes? Never met her. We packed up Curtis’s truck last Friday, tossed in a cooler, my favorite straw hat, and a bag of snacks that were 90% chips, 10% regret. Destination: Fort Myers Beach.
It’s about five hours from Live Oak, but somehow it took us seven — because Curtis refuses to admit when he misses a turn, and I refuse to keep quiet about it. The ride was full of country music, gas station coffee, and a heated debate about whether beef jerky counts as a meal (he says yes, I say no).
Fort Myers Feels Like the Kind of Place That Knows Your Name
By the time we hit the coast, the air smelled like sunscreen and ocean — which, to me, is the official scent of freedom. The first thing I did was kick my sandals off and run for the water. Curtis tripped over his own flip-flop and pretended it was on purpose. Romantic, really.
We spent most of the weekend doing absolutely nothing important. Walked barefoot down the pier, ate shrimp tacos with our hands, watched a pelican bully a seagull, and got sunburned in weird shapes. I bought a floppy hat I didn’t need and swore it was “a tax write-off for the blog.”
The evenings at Fort Myers Beach are the kind that make you forget there’s anywhere else in the world to be. The sky turns cotton candy pink, the waves go soft, and everyone just slows down. Curtis and I sat out on the sand with a cheap bottle of wine, watching kids chase crabs and older couples dance in the surf. It felt like one of those tiny, perfect moments that don’t need to be photographed — they just stay with you.
By the time we drove home, we were tired in the best kind of way — sun-drunk, sand still stuck between our toes, the cooler empty except for a rogue pickle jar. I swear trips like that fix parts of you you didn’t even know were broken.
So yeah, maybe we didn’t bring back souvenirs or fancy stories. But we did bring back a car that smells like sunscreen and sea air, which honestly feels like the closest thing to happiness I’ve ever bottled.