5 Sexagenarian Women at the Beach With 6 Good Knees and 9 Good Feet Between Us


We took off for Port Aransas, TX in two overpacked SUVs with five women, two dogs, luggage, beach hats, noodle floaties, and enough food for a small army. Nary a corner, cranny, or nook was left unpacked.

Bella, the adorable poodle, rode on one of three laps, mine, her “mom” Bebe’s or her “aunt” Marion’s, while Chula, the equally adorable, aging chihuahua slept in the small dog bed that just fit in the equally small dog-bed shaped cranny in the back. It was a tight but friendly bunch.

I am not an organizer. Ask anybody who knows me. Especially the other four ladies on this trip. They let me come anyway. Fortunately for us all, they bought and packed all the food and most of the two cars before I arrived. Otherwise we would have starved.

I shoved and tucked my various beach totes, purse, and computer in the tiny space they left for me. It was just enough. Small price to pay for not having to food shop, make a plan for who was cooking each night, how much wine each should contribute, how many pieces of fruit each person would eat, etc., etc.

I am one of those people. You know, that head to a beach with a swimsuit, towel, and a book. Usually when I go with my sister Elaine, she brings the wine and snacks. My friend Paige brings the chairs and umbrellas, which she has to pound into the sand by herself, as I am devolving and losing the use of my opposable thumbs.

But I digress to past beach trips.

It took our current crew two and a half hours to prepare to go to the beach the next day. If you ask why or how, I can’t answer. That part is all a blur to me. I do know we finally made it the sand, sun and ocean without snacks or wine even after two and a half hours of getting ready, so somebody screwed up. Not me, of course. Remember, that’s my sister’s job when it’s just us.

To give credit where it’s due, part of the delay was awaiting the arrival of a special case of wine Marion’s son was sending as a surprise. He’s a winemaker. The other part was for Eileen to go buy fresh shrimp for her to do a shrimp boil later. They are both given a pass for those delays. You’re welcome.

Three of us took separate walks on the beach that first day. One of us got lost. I’ll let you guess which one.

It’s not my fault all those orange chairs and matching umbrellas look the same. You’d think it would be easy to spot four sexagenarian ladies on the beach, but you would be wrong.

You know older ladies are invisible, right? Luckily, they sent out a scout, Eileen, to find me and bring me back.

In spite of that, I spent much of the week worried they would forget me and leave me behind. The other four have known each other for many years. I’m a newbie. Bebe introduced me to the pack one at a time, but for brief periods, before we left to spend an entire week together, presumably to make sure we got along. She’s wise like that.

I pictured the four of them, caught up in reminiscing, getting into the rented beach golf cart, bumping along the beach, then someone checking the seat that faces backwards and asking, “Where’s Carol?” I threatened to put a sign on it saying, “If you can read this, Carol fell off.”

So I spent a lot of time yelling up the stairs, “Don’t leave without me,” or “Remember I want to go, too.” In spite of the fact that I’m not easily forgettable. Again, ask anyone who knows me.

Also, the door to the driveway was on the ground floor along with my bedroom. I’m pretty sure I’d have caught them sneaking out.

Did I say ground floor? Why yes, I did. There were three floors, with the accompanying stairs. For a group of five sexagarians with six good knees and nine good feet between us. And one of us who is rather clumsy. I’ll let you guess which one.

Add to that two small doggos who wanted to be with all of us all the time so were underfoot. We maneuvered around them surprisingly well with our good body parts.

We’re a hardy bunch. We only used the elevator to bring the food up and the trash down. Okay, technically the others did that. I was good taking the trash from elevator to trash can, as long as the trash took the elevator while I took the stairs. No way I was getting stuck in a house elevator, especially not one containing bags of trash.

I know you’re asking yourself, “Did all five sexagenarians and all the knees and feet make it safely through the week and back home?” You know you want to know.

Why yes, we did. Where Carol, your intrepid adventurer and author, went for dinner and drinks with my niece, Laura, and tripped and fell off a step to the parking lot.

And broke both ankles.

Not to worry though, my bad knee is fine.

This post was previously published on MuddyUm.


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