Who Ain’t Tybee?

It’s the third week of July, which means I’m approaching peak beach rat. 

Crusty hair, sand in unspeakable places, skin molting into one giant freckle in spite of frequent slatherings of SPF 50. Record numbers of Americans might be bopping around Europe right now, but in my opinion the most relaxing vacays do not involve annoying air travel or watching dumbasses carve their names into the Coliseum.  

For the past umpteen summers, we’ve spent the hottest “J” month at the family beach house on Tybee Island, less than a half hour from our front door yet a world away from Savannah. I owe my father-in-law a lifetime of gratitude for allowing us to pass our Julys here, making sand mermaids and waiting for Mark to catch a fish for dinner (mostly flounder and whiting, with the occasional redfish. What can I say, I married well.)

Sir, I’ll have the flounder

Every summer brings a new round of memories: Eating PB&Js and watermelon with my mother-in-law under the umbrella that always crumpled in the wind. A naked toddler jumping five feet into the air after getting bit by a horsefly. Electric peach sunsets on the back river at Alley 3. Bucolic boat rides to Little Tybee with Captain Rene Heidt. Dolphins galore. So. Many. Parades.       

While most of the houses on the block have since been converted into full-time vacation rentals, we still have a few steadfast neighbors with whom we’ve shared decades of summer traditions, like Cort and John Atkinsons’ annual Fourth of July picnic under the pines and raising our morning coffee cups with Craig and Cindy Meyers from the upstairs porch. The island’s short-term rental restrictions currently prevent the house from becoming a revolving bachelorette party, but with careful planning and consistent maintenance it will hopefully stay in the family for our own grandchildren to enjoy, or until the sea swallows it up, whichever comes first. 

My dear in-laws bought the place in the mid-80s, back when it wasn’t such a fancy thing to own a second home on Tybee. Many Savannah families kept modest cottages here before real estate went whacko, inhabiting affordable coastal getaways with an easy commute back into town for work or to check on the yard. Affectionately known as the “Redneck Riviera” — or my favorite, “Truck Stop By the Sea” — Tybee island was no tony Hilton Head or Kiawah, its few full-time denizens preferring to hunt for sharks’ teeth than golf balls, the hushpuppies and attitudes served up the same way: Extra salty.

These days tastes and temperaments have evolved, and Tybee’s analog, pirate-y past seems overshadowed by five-story pastel eyesores and legions of electric golf carts. Its charming “drinking village with a fishing problem” reputation has spilled into complex controversies like staving off short-term vacation rental fever and Orange Crush crowd control as it deals with even bigger problems like wild full moon King tides that cover the only road and climate change lobbing storms around like all the world’s a drunk Wimbledon. The island’s growth means more stakeholders; even the cats have started attending City Council meetings. 

As a loyal part-timer, I don’t get to vote on Tybee but care deeply about what happens here. I’ve always loved the island’s signature lackadaisical, anti-authoritarian vibe, though I’m a big fan of the new smoking ban and the flashing crosswalks on Butler Ave. I might not get my mail here, but when I’m cruising on my bike to my man’s favorite secret fishing spot wearing my faded bikini that’s been in the same drawer for 20 years, I feel pretty darn local. 

But am I? Driving on Highway 80 past the golden ribboned marsh into Savannah last week, I was behind a pick-up truck with the sticker “You Ain’t Tybee,” a grizzled testament to the folks who had a Christmas stocking hung at Cap’n Chris’ restaurant and got dizzy on the merry-go-round that once turned near the pier. I laughed at first, then it made me wonder, “Who IS Tybee anymore?”