The Human Chain

Help was coming. But not soon enough.

- Jessica Simmons, Panama City, Florida

My husband sprang the idea on me at the last minute that Saturday evening, July 8, 2017. I didn’t even have a chance to go into mission mode. That’s our name for how I like to tackle things, from big projects like moving to everyday stuff like grocery shopping. I go into mission mode—I assess the situation, figure out what needs to be done, then do it.

“Let’s have dinner on the beach,” Derek said.

He must have seen me hesitate, because he added, “A farewell picnic.”

It was his family’s last day with us before they went home to Alabama— his mom and dad, three teenage nieces and a teenage boyfriend. Derek and I don’t have kids, and we loved playing parents for several weeks every summer. I worked at a hotel and cleaned houses on the side while taking business management classes online at the University of Alabama. I hoped to run a business someday centered around helping animals. Derek managed a team that set up voting stations for federal, state and local elections. A busy life. But making memories with the kids was our priority. We all love the water, and we’d taken them to water parks, the beach and kayaking.

“A picnic on the beach sounds perfect,” I said. “We can watch the sunset.”

We packed up the food, loaded everyone into cars and drove to Miller County Pier in Panama City Beach. The coastline here is known for its two sandbars—the first about 20 feet from shore, the second 30 feet out. The trough between the sandbars makes a nice lane to swim in on calm days, but when it’s choppy, look out. The waves can shift the sandbars and create rip currents.