Where'd the beach go?

You'd think a full-growed man living in the era of GPS and smartphones wouldn't have a problem finding the beach at Orange Beach, Ala.

It can feel oddly delicious to rat on one's self.

Here's how the author of this confession recently needed three hours in Orange Beach to locate the beach.

6:57 p.m.--The embarrassment began when, after 11 hours of driving one Sunday, we took the Foley Expressway toll road (an alternative to Alabama 59) for an easier shot into the beach town.

7:24--Hooray! We dead-end smack into a sign welcoming us to Orange Beach. A helpful lady minutes earlier at the toll booth had said to turn left and go four stoplights, then turn right to get to "the island."

Wait, no one had mentioned an island. Since I had no specific address except the "Romar building," I figured it'd be a snap to locate. So we drove four long stoplights, noticing that all the stores were closed.

7:38--Turning right, I developed the nagging feeling we were leaving Orange Beach and likely headed in the wrong direction.

So I pulled over to argue with myself over the likelihood that I'd overlooked the condo back in Orange Beach.

7:45--Turning around, it was back four miles to the intersection where we'd arrived beside an enormous shopping complex called The Wharf. From a distance in the darkness, The Wharf also appeared closed.

My phone battery was almost dead, but I had enough juice to call our host. He asked if I could see all the high-rise condos. I couldn't, except for one beside The Wharf. The streets were so poorly identified, we couldn't explain where we were.

7:53--He said he'd stand beneath the streetlight so I'd see him when we passed, adding that the condo was across the highway from Wintzell's Oyster House. "You can't miss the red building with a big W on the side." he assured.

7:57--Back at the dead-end welcoming us to town, this time we turned right and drove several miles until meeting a sign welcoming us to Gulf Shores. "Say wha?" Finally, we saw a lighted restaurant.

8:06--The busy cashier inside said, "Oh honey, you're in Gulf Shores. You need to go back to Orange Beach."

Reversing yet again, we headed back to Orange Beach and our favorite intersection beside The Wharf. Then it was past that to the fourth red light again. Still nothing. And not a business was open where I might ask a human where we were, other than the city's welcoming sign.

8:24--Phone dead.

8:41--Yet another U-turn. Back to The Wharf and into that massive retail complex with a condo alongside it. Alleluia! A lounge was bathed in light amid the conglomeration of shops.

We somehow wound up trapped amid a variety of concrete mazes comprising a massive unlit parking lot. I continually steered from one enclosed lot into another seeking a single exit. As 8:48 became 8:53, we decided to preserve what little sanity remained by laughing out loud.

9:01--At the lounge, a bartender said we needed to take Canal Road into and through Gulf Shores on Alabama 59 and on out to the island. So we left and headed back out to the highway to leave Orange Beach for Gulf Shores to get back into Orange Beach.

It was then we realized we were uncertain exactly where Canal Road was since none of the street signs (if they existed) were visible.

9:12--Back to the bar for clearer instructions. And of course, it turned out we'd been driving back and forth along Canal Road all along and been heading in the correct direction toward Gulf Shores when we'd turned around to return to the bartender for the new and improved directions.

It would have been helpful in visualizing our predicament had our bartending guide drawn an "O" showing us entering Orange Beach at the bottom with Gulf Shores to our immediate right and Orange Beach Island at the top facing the Gulf. But this dyslexic nightmare was my problem.

9:26--Back to and through Gulf Shores. By 9:35 we'd met an Orange Beach sign and finally saw the restaurants and high-rises we'd envisioned when arriving at "Orange Beach" hours earlier. But without a specific address and my phone still dead, all we could do is refer to written directions that read "Romar building."

Problem was "Orange Beach" is also known as "Romar Beach" with various condo complexes bearing the Romar name. By now, our equally confused and exasperated friend had wearied of waiting beneath the streetlight. We began stopping at complexes containing the name "Romar" in search of room 702. No luck.

Remembering Wintzell's Oyster House, I stopped again where lights were on and was told we were "almost there." Another half-mile farther and sure enough, there it was.

9:58--Across the four-lane stood the "Romar Place" condos. Finally, at 10:04 p.m. we knocked on the correct door after an 11-hour road trip had become 14. Go ahead, laugh. We did.

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Mike Masterson's column appears regularly in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Email him at [email protected].

Editorial on 10/22/2016

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