Folly Beach. The name itself should’ve been a clue that our smooth sequence of events was about to end.

Now, one must remember that our mothers did endeavor to teach us courtesy. Both Jessica and I know, despite our backwoods redneck upbringing, which fork to use for salad if there are two options set and how to sit when wearing a skirt. These western girls, however, had never been helped with luggage at hotel and so we were bewildered: Should we tip?

We concluded that we should. Tip gratefully accepted, our luggage safe, we proceeded to the bus stop. Several glances at schedules on the internet, in brochures, and on the bus stop sign had led us to believe our bus for Folly Beach would leave at 1:15. We sat and waited. Supposing the bus was a few minutes late, I pulled out the brochure, only to have a “revelation.” 1:15 was... the ARRIVAL time for the 12:30 bus. Another bus would not depart until 2:15. An hour to spare, we seized the opportunity to enjoy water and air conditioning and wander the visitor’s center. Wandering was brief, so aside from a great many curious glances, the only benefit was the friendly greeter who asked why we were sitting with our luggage.

As we left the building, this same friendly greeter caught us. Didn’t we say we were going to Folly Beach? Yes? Well, we needed to wait on the other side! He led us right to the Folly Beach bus.... a full city block from our happy waiting bench. We thought we had it made at that point. The bus was fairly empty, the driver friendly, the passengers peaceful.

Until. Until. Until we stopped by Wal-Mart to pick up a sweet old lady with a walker. We know she was sweet because her yellow crocs matched her yellow shirt. Fascinated, we watched the driver lower a lift, unfold a tailgate, and allow the lady to walk on. The tailgate went up. He pushed the button and -

Presto! Nothing happened. The lift was stuck and no amount of button-pressing, kicking, pushing, or human assistance was going to raise it. The lady backed up and sat on her walker. Two passengers left. The driver called another bus. I tried to go buy groceries at Wal-Mart, but in South Carolina, they still have the ones that are NOT super Wal-Marts. I guess I could’ve bought ketchup....

Anyway, about an hour and twenty minutes after we stopped, another bus arrived. We were all reloaded; best of all, the delay had given Jessica time to chat with a driver, who dropped us directly at our destination instead of at a designated bus stop.

Our vacation rental experience was not folly, for which we were thankful. Our hostess was gracious and helpful. The home overlooks the marsh and has a variety of outdoor locations for sitting enjoyment as well as a nice apartment indoors and kind owners downstairs. We found bikes for rent; the young man became our new best friend by offering to deliver them. We did a quick tour of Folly, an overview to help us plan our next three days. We visited (and were repeatedly informed that Folly was NOT an upscale beach), we grocery-shopped, we decided to ride our bikes... I mounted, pushed the pedals, and wondered if I were crazy. My bike was not moving. I soon realized I was not crazy, but the chain was off. Why hadn’t our new best friend noticed? The story does have a happy ending as, somehow, it accidentally slipped back on in the midst of our pushing and tugging to repair. After the ride, we decided sitting on the deck above the marsh to watch the tide come in while we ate was a grand idea.

It was a beautiful sunset and we marveled at said tide, basking in the breeze off of the nearby ocean. Then we finished the cheese and crackers, I sipped my tea - and the breeze blew the paper plate right down into the marsh.

“What are you going to do now?” Jessica asked.

“I don’t know.”

That mud was sticky, one could tell, and the plate was too far from the deck to be reached, even if we waited for the water to come up. But how could a good houseguest litter?

I came to a conclusion. I knew there was a reason I’d bought flip-flops for this trip at the dollar store! Surely I could spare $1 if the mud ruined them. Jessica decided to put on her trashy flip-flops as well, in case she had to pull me out of the mud. One hand gathering my skirt high above my knees, I was ready.

I took a step. Then another. Stepping on the bulrushes was OK. All of a sudden my shoe stayed in the mud while my foot moved forward. I concluded that that would be OK, since I could get it on the return journey. Just then, my other foot sunk, deeper, deeper, all the way to my knee in the mud. I continued with the the bare foot, sinking, again, to my knee, but I could JUST reach the plate. I grabbed it and stepped backward quickly with the bare foot. When I lifted the remaining foot, it came, but with no shoe.

“What are you gonna do now?”

I think that’s Jessica’s favorite question.

“I don’t know. But you’re going to grab this plate before I lose it again.”

She did, suggesting, “We can get you more shoes.... But then, what’s the difference in a shoe and a plate?”

Exactly. I pulled my foot loose and stuck it in the more shallow mud behind me, burying my arm into the hole to grab the shoe. It came loose, only one flip-flop strap still attached. I walked out, one hand still clean, holding up the skirt, the rest of me pretty much covered in mud. We found the garden hose.

 Good thing it’s not an upscale beach.