Just finished unpacking, getting all homey-like, and lo and behold - the house is equipped with high-speed internet (free, to boot!). We're rolling ghetto fab-u-lous. So you guys' aren't going to get the reprieve that you hoped for.
Got to the airport at 9 am, but had to wait around due to there being an air show going on there (cue: "Rock You Like a Hurricane"). After the F-16 jets did their belly rolls, we finally lifted off at 10:15 and arrived on Hilton Head Island at a little before noon. Private jets are the only way I'll travel from now on. This may provide a problem for my eventual DC workday commute.
When we got here, the houses were still being cleaned. So we had lunch at the Salty Dog. And then they were still being cleaned. I then went to the pool and read 100 pages of my Kevin Smith book. The Read-A-Thon has started, folks. A girl asked, "can I smoke here, sir?" One: I'm not a lifeguard (the "NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY" sign behind me should've clued her in). Two: I am definitely not a "sir." Gray hairs, notwithstanding.
After medicating a splitting headache (brought on no doubt by a combination of exposure to the sun, ingesting more sugar this morning than in the past three months, and a change in pressure), I'm feeling pretty good now.
Just so you know, I am a walking dichotomy. I love the beach. Not really going in the water so much as just enjoying the overall vibe and environment. Yet, being the "relaxed fit" guy that I am, there is a perpetual layer of glaze over me whenever I step out into temperatures higher than 45F (2 Kelvin). Add to the fact that I seldom wear just a t-shirt as my sole upper level attire and you can imagine how this muggy, Vietnam-like atmosphere is for me. It's hot. Africa hot.* But I love the beach.
*Mad props to KPMD for reviving this quote and, thus, making it the official tagline for Micah World.