To the Coast!!!

 A Road Trip to Corpus Christi: A Glorious Journey into Heat, Sand, and Existential Despair

by Moe Stafford 

There comes a time in every American’s life when they feel a primal urge deep in their soul to hit the road and head to the coast. For Texans, that means Corpus Christi—a place that is both a city and a warning label. I recently made this pilgrimage with my family in a vehicle scientifically designed to hold one large suitcase and one medium-sized raccoon, yet somehow crammed with enough gear to colonize Mars.

Packing the Car: An Engineering Miracle

Our first challenge was fitting 47 duffel bags, 2 coolers, 3 kids, and an inflatable orca named “Justice” into the back of a midsize SUV. After several rounds of amateur Tetris and professional-level swearing, we managed to close the trunk using only a bungee cord and what I believe is now a legally binding prayer.

Our snacks included three flavors of beef jerky, five forms of melted chocolate, and a trail mix that everyone ignored because it had raisins in it. Also, 14 bottles of water that nobody would drink because they “weren’t cold enough,” even though we were driving to the surface of the sun.

The Road: A Scenic Tour of Nothing

The drive to Corpus Christi is roughly three hours of flat terrain, punctuated by billboards for personal injury lawyers and signs that say things like, “Last Buc-ee’s for 40 Miles—Abandon Hope All Ye Who Exit Here.”

If you’ve never driven this route, just imagine being inside a hair dryer that smells faintly like cow and has been playing “Margaritaville” on repeat since 1998.

At one point, we passed a town called “Refugio,” which I believe is Spanish for “Congratulations, You’re Lost.” We stopped for gas and were immediately surrounded by aggressive seagulls who had clearly completed at least one tour in Iraq.

Arrival: The Coastal Apocalypse

Ah, Corpus Christi—where the wind is so strong you can lean into it like Michael Jackson in the “Smooth Criminal” video and not fall over. The beach itself was a charming mix of actual sand and hot silica shrapnel that launched into your eye sockets every time a toddler walked past.

We found a spot near the water, laid out our towels, and were instantly engulfed by rogue beach umbrellas traveling at Mach 3. My youngest child attempted to build a sandcastle but instead created a vaguely pyramid-shaped tribute to chaos, which a wave destroyed before he could name it “Fort Dingleberry.”

Wildlife and Other Natural Hazards

Corpus is known for its coastal wildlife, including jellyfish, seagulls with anger issues, and mosquitoes that could bench press a Volkswagen. One particularly jacked pelican gave me a look that said, “Nice sandwich. Shame if someone stole it mid-bite.” I now owe that bird $4.75 and emotional damages.

Dining: Seafood and Regret

We had dinner at a local seafood place that proudly boasted “We fry everything but the receipt!” I ordered the fried shrimp platter, which arrived on a paper plate shaped like a pirate ship, accompanied by a side of hushpuppies that whispered ominous threats about my cholesterol.

The waiter’s name was either “Chaz” or “Bartholomew the Moist,” and he spent most of the evening trying to sell us on a key lime pie that had the consistency of industrial caulk. It was delicious, in the way that accidentally licking sunscreen is “delicious.”

The Return Trip: A Glorious Defeat

By the end of the trip, everyone was sunburned, dehydrated, and somehow still full of beef jerky. The ride home was eerily quiet, like the part in a war movie where the surviving soldiers reflect on the true cost of battle. Our car smelled like feet and melted sunscreen. I believe something may still be alive in the cooler.

Would we do it again? Absolutely not.

Until next summer.

Because that’s what Texans do: we suffer, we fry, and we road trip into oblivion with a cooler full of dreams and a GPS that still pronounces “Corpus” as “Corpse.”