Comical peek inside life of an islander
To the editor:
Ah, life as a Sanibelian — where every day feels like a tropical postcard, except for the parts that are total chaos. Let me give you a comical peek inside the life of us island dwellers. Spoiler: it’s not all sunsets and mojitos … well, mostly it is, but there’s more to it than that.
First, let’s talk about our bikes, because around here, bikes are basically our version of a status symbol. I’ve had the same rusty beach cruiser for a decade, and every squeak tells a story. But these new e-bike riders? They’re out here tearing down the SUP going machine-Jesus … Sharing the path? Please. It’s every man, woman, and gopher tortoise for themselves. I’ve been nearly taken out by a blur in spandex more times than I can count.
Then there’s the shelling. Look, I take my shelling seriously. Sunrise, flashlight in hand, mesh bag at the ready — it’s practically a sacred ritual. Finding a junonia? That’s the dream, the Holy Grail. The day I found mine, I called everyone I know and acted like I’d just cured a disease. But don’t get me started on tourists who pick up live shells. You better believe I’ll march right over and give them a full lecture, complete with diagrams. It’s for their own good, really.
And the wildlife — we love our wildlife here, or at least we pretend to. I’ve got a gator in my backyard we’ve named Earl. He’s harmless, I swear, as long as you don’t get too close … or own a nosy, scaredy cat dog. And don’t even mention the no-see-ums. Locals like to act like they’ve built up some kind of immunity, but we’re all scratching our ankles in secret. “Oh, they don’t bother me anymore,” I’ll say while I own multiple bottles of Vietnam-era DEET that I’ll never part with.
Now, let’s talk about season. Every year, the tourists descend like a flock of migrating snowbirds, armed with wide-brimmed hats, guidebooks, and an uncanny ability to walk four abreast on the SUP at the exact speed of frustration. Suddenly, Periwinkle Way turns into a slow-moving parking lot of rental SUVs, all with their blinkers on, because apparently, they’re always turning. Meanwhile, someone’s blocking traffic to take a photo of an ibis, like they’ve never seen a bird before. Spoiler alert: the ibis doesn’t care.
The beach during season is a spectacle — a full-contact sport for the uninitiated, and a comedy show for the rest of us. You can always tell who’s a visitor by the way they approach the beach like it’s a military operation. They haul in enough gear for a month-long expedition: umbrellas, chairs, coolers the size of bathtubs, an entire buffet spread, and, of course, that one cousin who insists on dragging a wagon through the softest sand imaginable. By the time they’ve set it all up, they look like they’ve just run a marathon in a sauna.
Placement is another story. Visitors will set up right at the water’s edge, convinced they’ve claimed beachfront real estate for the ages. Cue the tide rolling in. Suddenly, they’re scrambling like they’re on an episode of “Survivor,” dragging everything back three feet at a time, only to repeat the process every 15 minutes. The beach chairs end up looking like a game of musical chairs nobody’s winning.
And let’s talk about sunscreen. Locals know the drill: reapply every hour or get fried like a piece of grouper. But visitors? Oh, no. You’ll spot them out there, confidently slathering on SPF 4, as if they’re immune to the sun that’s turned us all into professional shade-hunters. By midday, they’re redder than a boiled lobster, sitting under their umbrellas, nursing their regrets with bottled water they paid $6 for at the gift shop.
Then there’s the shelling situation. Experts have it down to a science — mesh bag, sunrise start, and a lifetime of knowing what to pick up. But newbies? They’re like kids in a candy store, grabbing everything in sight and squealing over broken clam shells like they’ve found a hidden treasure. And if you see someone picking up a live shell? That’s when we locals step in. We’ll swoop in like a Captain Planet and The Planeteers ambassador, delivering a TED Talk on marine conservation whether they asked for it or not. It’s our duty, really.
And let’s not forget the wildlife encounters. Visitors lose their minds over the sight of a pod of dolphin (so do we) or a committee of terns (yes, that’s what it’s called) which is adorable — until they try to feed a raccoon, save a walking catfish or chase a pelican for a selfie. Pro tip: the raccoons are not your friends, and the pelican doesn’t care about your Instagram. But hey, watching someone get a little too close to a seagull only to lose their snack is always good for a laugh.
In the end, we locals just shake our heads and laugh. Sure, they clog the paths and ask crazy questions but deep down, we know the truth: we’re just glad they’re here. After all, their enthusiasm reminds us not to take this paradise for granted, and why we are here in the first place. Plus, every shelling faux pas and sunscreen mishap makes for a great story later, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.
We Sanibelians love to complain about it all, loudly and often, but deep down, we kind of love the chaos. I mean, it’s quiet in the off-season, but let’s be honest: too quiet. By July, I’m so bored I start naming the iguanas on my deck and arguing with Earl the gator over who gets the shady spot in the yard. So yeah, we’ll roll our eyes at the tourists, but come October, we’re secretly ready for the circus to start again. It’s just who we are.
And hurricanes? Oh, we’ve got stories. You’ve never truly lived as a Sanibelian until you’ve seen an alligator wandering the post office like it’s waiting for a package. Or until you’ve had to explain to someone off-island how we’re so fancy that every single ground-level item is brand-spanking new. Hurricanes don’t just blow through; they rearrange our entire lives. But we’re resilient. When the storm clears, we come together in ways that would make a Hallmark movie blush.
The morning after is a ritual all its own. We follow the hum of generators like it’s some sacred call, chasing the promise of hot coffee and, if we’re lucky, a fan to sit in front of for five glorious minutes. Forget Wi-Fi — survival is all about a cold drink, a charged phone, and a neighbor who somehow remembered to restock their propane. Sure, we’ll spend the next month debating whether we should switch to hurricane glass, but in the moment, we’re just grateful to still be standing, laughing about the Ian gator’s attempt to take over as Post Master.
But for all the surprises, I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. We’ve got the best sunsets, the best shelling, and a community that always comes together — even if we’re a little territorial about our bike paths and a lot territorial about our junonias. It’s a weird little paradise, but it’s ours.
And let’s be honest: we all have to find entertainment value where we can. Whether we’re dodging e-bikes, stomping to scare off gators, or chasing a generator hum at dawn, this lighthearted ability to poke fun at our quirks shows just how much we love this island. It’s chaotic, beautiful, and absolutely perfect — just like us.
This is all in fun. I love it here. I love sharing my love for this paradise with our visitors and we all need to laugh at ourselves. There’s no brass ring.
Kim Whitt
Sanibel