The sky was blue.
The sun was shining.
Perfect beach going weather.
The suburban was packed and I managed to leave everyone just enough room
to breathe.
Which is usually important when driving for an hour and a half.
The boat was filled with more poles and tackle than I am certain
any one person could possibly need .
We were off for what was to be a glorious week at the beach.
Ten minutes into our drive there was a bump.
And a thump.
And a slight swerving of the boat.
And I knew all was not right in vacationland.
I looked out of my rearview mirror and saw the problem.
We had a flat tire.
On the boat trailer.
We pulled off the highway and Chad hopped out to investigate.
I hopped out too.
I had an empty memory card and a fully charged battery.
I could hardly wait to document our fun.
So I did.
Much to Chad's chagrin.
I snapped the first 16 photos of our vacation standing on the side of the road.
My strong, burly husband tried with all his might to get the tire off.
He tried.
And tried.
Nothing.
Some friendly folk from across the highway came out to see what all the
Nice people.
No help.
Then a friend of ours passed by and stopped.
He was all dressed up in his Sundaygotomeeting attire.
What was he going to do?
He offered his moral support.
After 30 minutes of prying and pulling and wrestling with
an angel from on high was sent to us.
In the form of a Farm Service Provider.
With an Air Gun.
And power tools.
At first he was no help either.
But after much grunting, whining and sweating on my part...
the tire was off.
The spare was put on, my camera was put away, and we were off once again.
A small detour was made at Nana's house for her delicious fried chicken
and homemade biscuits.
A detour my thighs are still thanking me for.
And all was right in the world.
