Once upon a time, we discovered a small island off the coast of Savannah: Tybee. To reach it, we drive over low country marshes and back in time. We stay in old beach cottages with outdoor showers, brightly colored interiors, and always sandy floors. We traipse over the dunes to the never crowded beach each morning, looking for dolphins, gathering shells, watching the tankers head out to sea, and crashing the waves. We sit on the ever moving borderline between sand and surf, letting the foamy waves cover our feet while we read soggy paperbacks. We fly kites and build castles. We use tide pools as hot tubs. We drift home to lunch and nap. Then we repeat. Sometimes if it rains, we see rainbows over the ocean after. We stock up at the IGA, filling the fridge with fizzy drinks, fruit, and island goodies. When we want even more food, we drive back to Savannah and eat like true Southerners. While there we visit the cemetery or wander a square. At night, we fall into our sandy beds with sun-pinked cheeks, dreaming of more. We chart our vacations by the last time we were at Tybee. We keep going back because it’s one of the best places to be that most people don’t go–which makes it perfect and ours.