So... Back to the Trip...

Here we have the next chapter in the Never-Ending Story...

After parts start falling off of the Quest, we decide we'll stop at the next populated place and find a garage... just to be safe, since we are minus one panel of some unknown importance and a lot of tire pressure.

We pull off in Bishopville, and -- can I just say -- this might have been the highlight of the trip down. The man who ran the garage -- both are nameless because I can't remember -- was super nice. The young woman in the office gave us paper and crayons and an air-conditioned place to wait.

Oh, and it had a potty. Definite bonus with 6 kids.

The local law men came in, chatted with us a bit. Ethan launched into a twenty minute description of James the Cat (my brother Jay) who also carries a gun and is a po-weese. Thank goodness they were amused by my big-noggined pumpkin, or they might've arrested me for assault with a deadly weapon (Ethan's never-closing mouth).

All in all, our pleasant moods were restored, especially when we found out that the plug (which is illegal, just so you know) had come loose from the hole in the tire that had already been patched... so this guy just re-patched the tire for minimal cost and said we were good to go.

Score!!! We'll be soaking up sun by mid-afternoon.

Whatever.

We drive for a while, visions of beach fun dancing in our heads... until the air pressure starts dropping again.

I believe, at this point, we stop in Florence, only to be told by the man at the Sears auto place that we'll have to wait hours to get the tire fixed there and that our best bet is just to keep putting air in the tire until we get to the beach.

Needless to say, none of us will be frequenting that Sears if ever we return to Florence. He obviously didn't want us to write glowing letters of recommendation to his bosses and his bosses' bosses because he went out of his way to help three lovely damsels in distress.

We start looking for the closest place with an air pump, and up ahead, we see what appears to be a gas station/grill kind of place and pull in.

We drive around... but can't spot the air pump, so I volunteer to go in.

Oh. My.

All four people in the building are in the grill/restaurant area of the store sitting around the table.

All four are drinking Budweiser... in the middle of the afternoon.

All four are missing some serious teeth... as in there's probably one set between them all.

No one is manning the register. No one is outside helping customers.

No... they're all taking a beer break.

Sweet. We're having a crisis, and our lives depend on four people -- without full sets of teeth -- that may be intoxicated.

One of the gentlemen -- who, let me say for the record, was as nice as he could be -- directed us down the road to another place that he was pretty sure would have an air pump.

Back in the vans, we drive until we find this place -- again, the name of which I cannot remember -- but I will say that there were large signs advertising that they sold moccasins (a true low country souvenier, as the American Indian population is huge there) and low carb chocolate covered peanuts... or something like that.

Not quite as bad as South of the Border, but one can tell that this place is striving to be a close second...

As scary-touristy as it is, they do have an air pump. Elated, we all pile out, ready to pump the tire up.

With the first quarters that I put in, nothing happened.

So, I put more quarters in the machine.... and air! Air!!!

We unscrew the tire cap, attach the air hose, and... realize the cap on the air hose is broken. Air is just swooshing out everywhere, but none is going into Bess's tire.

Kelley makes a quick phone call -- and this is a good place to add that, at this point, all of our cell phones are dead except Bess's -- and comes back to say that we need to get a can of Fix-A-Flat from the store. That should solve the problem until we can get somewhere.

And it probably would have... if the can top hadn't broken off on the tire valve.

We all just stare at the tire, with all kinds of foamy stuff sealing around the valve.

That did not just happen. Surely, this is some kind of cruel joke.

Oh, no. It's for real. Someone runs into the store and returns with a random man who fiddles around with the tire for a few minutes and then sends us on our way.

We finally drag into the outskirts of Myrtle Beach, flashers glowing, as the air pressure begins to steadily drop. Luckily, we spot a Wal-Mart and pull in to get the tire changed completely... only the Wal-Mart DOESN'T HAVE A BLESSED AUTO CENTER!!!!!

The day, like this blog, will never end...

I'll be back soon to wrap up the saga....