waves away

September 9 The sun rises on Tybee Island behind a mess of low clouds and misty remnants of rain. I’m stirred awake by a fierce itch at my ankle. Reaching down for the welt, I find a pair of them, and at the same time become aware of another one at my elbow. My bites are modest, though, compared to Brian’s; he’s sitting up and scratching madly around what looks like measles threatening to overtake his whole calf. The restless night comes back to me, feeling crowded out of my sleep for eight hours. It was his body heat I’d been warding off in the oppressively humid air, but the added intrusion of so much mosquito venom justifies it better.             I tell him not to scratch, then find the calamine lotion at the bottom of my duffle bag in the front seat. While he applies it, I drag open the side door, exposing the 80° world of mud outside. We sit amidst our wadded sheet staring dumbly down at it. A clammy film covers me....

September 8 I’m amazed to peer through crusty eyes at a bedside clock showing 10:00 am. It’s late. The heavy hotel drapes have preserved our hibernation, and only when the hot wind through the screen door ruffles the drapes aside does the day creep in. Untangling my legs from the bed sheet, I roll over and find Brian beginning to stir as well.             “Nice sleep,” I declare, propping my chin on his shoulder.             He agrees. “I had lots of dreams.”             “About cockroaches?”             “About Mark Wahlberg.” “Hmm, should I be jealous?” He says no with a kiss, then springs out of bed. Okay, that’s it for Myrtle Beach . I follow him, and we are soon in the sunny parking lot, ready to roll. After loading the duffle bags, he goes back into...

September 7 Even with the fresh Atlantic air, I'm not sleeping well in the Chevy Venture. The week-old juice boxes barely taste orange. The Salter Path showers are dingy and the water cold. I’m recycling clothes since I’ll change them throughout the day; I throw on yesterday morning’s shorts and t-shirt. Brian is back down on the beach, watching three guys catch and clean fish on the spot, among sand-holstered poles that stand up all along the waterline. I’ve never seen this sort of fishing, but now I’m the one ready to move on to whatever's next. From the top of the stairs I wheedle him to the van and point us southwest.             Under the cresting sun we say goodbye to the Outer Banks, crossing back onto the mainland through Camp Lejeune Marine Corps Base, which looks like a jungle and makes me nervous with its TANK XING signs and sniper towers poking out of the trees. An hour later, Highway 17 still smells coastal, but s...