Navigating Rough Waters
Eager to explore my evolution, I got more than I bargained for on a solo trip
At twenty-two-years-old, my friends and I all knew the rules of traveling alone: Don’t entice or encourage, dress appropriately, carry pepper spray, and stay together.
My college roommate and I formulated intricate plans for what to do if we got separated, knowing we’d exude an air of confidence if our mistake appeared natural. Look towards where you want to go, not where you don’t.
While touring Europe at that age, the Frenchmen called us Mademoiselles but left us alone. The young Italian men shouted, “Ciao, Bella,” but stopped there. In London, we were “mates” and were guided towards the best fish and chips in town.
Now, twenty years after that trip, and a year after the start of the pandemic, with vaccinations being rolled out, I was eager to escape my four walls. Like everyone, my creativity was stifled. My husband worked from the guest bedroom; my teen daughters were in virtual school. Life was cramped. I felt eager to explore my evolution — as a woman, mother, wife — but also as someone who lived through the harrowing grief of a pandemic.
With international travel still being limited, I settled on the Southeast. Live oaks draped in Spanish moss, grand historic homes, a walkable downtown. A beautiful coastline made it an even better choice.
I secured an Uber from the airport to the B&B where I’d be staying. I didn’t need a car; I’d walk. It was so European. A great aunt warned, “Have fun, but be careful.” A friend said, “Do you have pepper spray?” Another said, “Wear sundresses and jean jackets…it’s the South. Leave the pants at home.” And so I did.
But I disregarded the pepper spray. I blew off the warnings. Of course, I’d be careful. I’m a married mother of teenaged daughters. Being careful is in my DNA. I tossed in hand sanitizer, extra masks, sunscreen, and bug spray.
Immediately, I was enamored. The air held a hint of lilacs and azalea. The tree-lined streets boasted quaint shops and restaurants. Strangers waved and doors were held open. Everyone smiled. I grabbed a visitor’s guide and learned that a carriage tour would be the best way to get my bearings. Another solo woman and I shared a quick and friendly conversation. We were traveling alone, but it was okay. This was the South.
I sipped a sweet-tea float, dined alone on a patio, practiced yoga on the square. I often project comfort and ease. Others call it being bold and brave. To me, it’s self-assurance, poise.
Immediately, I was enamored. The air held a hint of lilacs and azalea. The tree-lined streets boasted quaint shops and restaurants. Strangers waved and doors were held open. Everyone smiled.
I decided to take a harbor cruise. My diamond sparkled on my left hand, like a glimmer of sun on a wave. The sun warmed my face, the air tousled my hair. I snapped photos of sailboats, the marshy low country.
The captain slowed the boat, handed the helm to his first-mate, a woman in her twenties, and stood uncomfortably close to me.
“You have a glow about you,” he said.
I have crow’s feet, a patch of silver streams running through my hair. Did I signal “available” because I was alone? Did I “ask for it” because I wore a skirt?
A family with three daughters, slightly younger than my own, were also on board. They delighted in asking questions, offered beaches loaded with shark’s teeth, where to get t-shirts and grits. We exchanged photos of dolphins. I noticed my battery was low.
“You’re really good with kids,” the captain grinned and moved closer, his body moist with sweat. “You must be a teacher.”
“No,” I said. “I’m a mom.”
The boat was idling.
“An estuary,” the captain explained, “is basically a nursery for sea life.”
I was carrying a notebook where I jotted down things. The security code to my B&B, the next day’s tour. “Estuary” was added. The boat captain nodded, “Writer, then?”
You tell someone you’re a writer and they flock to you with their story ideas. They want to know if you can get them published if you’ll read their manuscript, what you write, why you write. If you’re famous.
“Yep. A writer.”
The boat bobbed in the gray-green waters, lapping at the stern. The children were enchanted by the dolphins. The shoreline was miles away. My cell phone went dark.
“You really should go on my tour to the island tomorrow. It’s only accessible by boat. Really pretty.”
I think: He just wants to sell a tour. It’s part of his job.
“It’s really remote,” he continued. “A hiking and photographic expedition. Might give you something to write about.”
Something settled in my gut, slick and oily. “Sorry, I’m already committed,” I said.
“Maybe another day?” he said; sharp and slightly charming.
Is this Southern hospitality? Do Southern men remark on a stranger’s glow, her ease with children? Do they offer extended tours? He revved the engine. We cruised at high speed to the dock, the children blissful.
Less than twelve hours later, I received a text. Oswego? Is that Native American?
The boat bobbed in the gray-green waters, lapping at the stern. The children were enchanted by the dolphins. The shoreline was miles away. My cell phone went dark.
I never provided my number to this man. I said nothing about Oswego, an area not far from where I reside. He offered “tips, hints, hacks” for navigating the low country, provided photos that graced the cover of Southern Living, because he, too, is a photographer and writer. He has plenty of ideas.
I reiterated, “No, but thank you.”
Another text: Meet me at the downtown dock at 6:30 p.m. for a private sunset tour. He provided the gate code. This was beyond friendly; a line had been crossed.
I felt exposed, vulnerable, and fearful this man was tracking me. I have plans with my hosts, I responded.
Wearily I trekked through the wrought iron gate of the B&B, ascended the steps, plugged in my code. “Did you have fun?” the host asked. I explained the situation. My anxiety thrummed.
The wrong questions were asked: Was he attractive? How old?
I felt eviscerated. Trust and privacy were violated. Age and attractiveness, a moot point. The host redeemed himself, offering to act as security if I needed to go out.
Another text: I don’t know your hosts, but I do not like them right now. Here I felt a complex stew of grief. The virus I was outrunning had found me: it was human nature.
Grief is overwhelming, like having a layer of skin stripped away. I knew the rules, not just of solo travel, but of navigating this virus: mask, social distance, and myriad others. And yet, somehow, I was infected. The pandemic has limited our ability to do many things, but what it did to me — disturbing my interiority — will take time to rebuild.
Here’s the true lesson: my sense of confidence was shaken, but I’ve emerged from the murky waters, dodged sharp-toothed sharks, and found my safe harbor: my husband, my first-mate, who welcomed me with open arms.
I’ve found my sea legs; I’ve caught my breath.
Addendum: The captain was reported to his employer who was dismayed he harvested my contact number from the ship manifest. He was equally shocked that his employee would take out an expensive vessel, which he did not own, after hours, without approval. The matter is being investigated. No additional attempts at contact have been made.
Leslie Lindsay is the award-winning author of Speaking of Apraxia. Her writing has been featured in various literary journals, most recently, Psychology Today, Read Her Like an Open Book, and The Mighty. Her memoir Model Home is currently with Catalyst Literary Management. She is the creator and host of leslielindsay.com|Always with a Book, where she interviews bestselling contemporary authors. Leslie can be found on Instagram and Twitter @LeslieLindsay1
