Earlier this year, Andrea was invited to a conference in Orlando. Flying was still a bit of a bear, so when I agreed to go with her, we decided to rent a car and make it a road trip. In a display of modern connectedness, I pulled up the Enterprise app on my phone and requested a small SUV. Knowing my wife, unconstrained by the baggage limitations imposed by airlines, she would pack for a 3-month safari rather than a 1-week trip.
When I got to the rental agency, the associate was very apologetic. "Mr. Capuyan, I know you reserved an SUV, but there's simply none available." Picturing all of Andrea's bags stuffed into all nooks and crannies in a smaller sedan, my level of excitement for the trip was waning. The rental associate continued, "I'm really sorry, but the only thing I have ready at this moment is a new Mustang."
Wait. What? My internal frown became a very visible grin. My new best friend wasn't finished. "Let me verify something. Umm. Yeah, OK. It looks like it's a convertible. Is that acceptable?" Pfft. Man, who does this dude think he's talking to? My slight grin just took on Cheshire cat proportions. I'm partial to vintage Stangs, and I'd likely never purchase a new model. However, renting one for a week down in Florida was a different matter. Faster than a cat's flicking tail in a room full of rocking chairs, I yelled, "I'll take it!"
When I giddily relayed the news to Andrea, she wasn't nearly as enthused. "But it's a convertible!" This was met with pursed lips and a nod. I've known Andrea for over half my life and I didn't realize until that moment that she just wasn't a fan of that body style.
With the trunk jammed full and the back seat packed to the gills, we set out. I was enjoying the modern amenities available in this ride that weren't in ours like its blue tooth stereo and backup camera. The seats were definitely more comfortable than those in the '67 and '70, but they held another surprise. I knew heated seats have been around for decades, but cooled seats were new to me. As a guy, I can say cold air coming up your backside in the tropical Florida heat and humidity was a-ma-zing.
While Andrea was in her conference, I had to figure out how to fill my days. Hitting the amusement parks would seem obvious, but with their large press of humanity, it's just not my scene. One thing overrode my reticence. Andrea and I had been listening to the entire Harry Potter audiobook series on our recent road trips, including this one, and so I had Hogwarts on the brain. I bit the bullet and bought a one-day pass to Universal Studios.
Disaster. It took 2 hours in traffic just to get from the road around the park to the parking deck and a 3/4 mile hike from the deck to the park entrance. Also, I'd unknowingly picked the first day the parks were reopened post-COVID, and the throngs of cabin fevered parents who'd homeschooled their brood for the past year were out in force. The park was definitely caught off guard and was not ready for the deluge of people. Waiting times for all major rides were measured in hours, park restaurants had to shut down early because they ran out of food, and street vendors were even running out of bottled water. To punctuate my ill-advised decision, the sky opened up in a drenching downpour. Kids were hot, wet, hungry, and unhappy, and their frazzled parents looked like they'd just as soon cut you than look at you. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But I got my steps in - so there's that.
The next day, I took a very different road for my solo adventure. After yesterday's throngs of people, I needed solitude and proximity to the ocean. Daytona Beach was just over an hour from Orlando, but I suspected it was another crowd magnet. Instead, I charted a course for New Smyrna Beach. After following the Interstate north, I split off onto a quiet state road heading due east towards the water. The sun was out so I popped on my shades, dropped the top, and cranked up the Buffett playlist. Keeping an eagle eye out for Smokey, I spurred the Stang and we tore up that asphalt. Running that stretch of lonesome highway at speed nearly made up for the prior day's debacle.
I made my way to Smyrna Dunes Park and spent the morning hiking its perimeter, taking a break on the inland side under some mangroves. Sitting at the water's edge, the gentle breeze and the rhythmic sound of waves coming ashore made for a very Zen experience, and I imagined my blood pressure dropped a few points.
After a quick lunch in town, the journey continued down South Atlantic Avenue. Here, the oceanside waves were larger and louder, and the stiff ocean breeze, carrying the strong scent of brine, canceled out the heat of the afternoon sun. Thus, the top stayed down, allowing me to continue working on my tan. I cruised the Stang to the literal end of the road and parked a stone's throw from the water.
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| The end of the road |
Leaning against the hood with crossed arms, I looked out to sea. The distant horizon, vast emptiness of that ocean, and the deserted beach had the desired effect and were palliatives for the soul, tamping down the inner G.O.M. awakened a scant 24 hours prior. Taking another road, disappearing from society, and running this pony to the shore made for a very good day.
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