The winter of 2020 promised our third successful year dodging Vermont’s harshest weather. I meticulously planned our escape to sunny Sarasota where we could revel in outdoor tennis and enjoy our snowbird, clay-court friends. One night, the evening news raised the alarm about a new coronavirus in China. Half a world away, my husband Bob and I were complacent, naively reassured by our healthy retirement lifestyle. But soon a funeral in Georgia triggered an outbreak there, and in a matter of days, twenty-five friends and relatives of a retired janitor were dead. Twenty-five otherwise healthy people.
We panicked when we realized we had just hosted twelve of our closest friends for Bob’s seventy-fifth birthday. Should we have done that? If there were more outbreaks, how would we manage the 1,500-mile car ride home? Canada threatened to close its borders, and we watched Canadians skedaddle north. Could Vermont close its borders? Suddenly, lounging by the pool no longer seemed the prudent choice. We made sure everyone at the party shared their contact information; then we left our rental three weeks early for the long drive home.
We stayed in nearly empty B&Bs. We stopped eating out, and I packed sandwiches instead. We went straight to bed every night so we could head out early every morning. Rest areas along the highway were deserted, their fast food and coffee shops shuttered. We stopped only for gas and sleep in an anxiety driven frenzy to get back to our own state, back to our own routine of playing tennis with friends in our safe little club.
If only it had been that simple. At home, we learned that the state mandates closed our gym along with almost everything else. Mud season in Vermont without family, friends, or tennis was dark and depressing. The virus rampaged across the globe and onto our TV. I worried for everyone, my heart pounding all day, every day, as we woke to press conferences, daily death tolls, and nursing shortages.
Weeks passed and then a glorious thing happened; a nearby golf club with two clay courts opened for the season. Outdoor tennis was deemed “safe,” and a friend invited me and a few others to venture outside and join her. Our favorite pros ran clinics, and for a small fee, we could sign up, hit, and then stay for doubles. For two hours a day, life felt almost normal. Tennis sustained us through that spring and summer. It got our hearts and lungs pumping; for two hours, we were able to forget the dreadful news; for two hours, we laughed, shared stories, celebrated birthdays, and even hoped we’d improve our games.
Finally, our gym reopened, and we were allowed back inside. At the start, we had to play masked and within our family bubbles. I was grateful my husband was willing to hit with me (he is a much better player), but I missed my female friends. I missed our solidarity in wanting to improve our tennis and the intimacy we so easily shared. The moment arrived when the masks came off, our pro returned, and we recommitted to our lessons. Our core group grew, and we reveled in ordinary days, just being together. We resumed USTA league play, cheering and consoling each other every time we hit the court.
Eventually, even travel became part of our lives again. “Hey Ladies, I have the perfect girls’ tennis getaway idea for us. I think we all need to go to Amelia Island for tennis camp.” Instantly, everyone agreed; we were just that sure of each other. Next winter, we would be off to tennis by the sea. We emailed resorts and made reservations. Our plans took shape and in early April, the day arrived.
In order to make our 6 a.m. flight, we’d all bolted awake at 3:30. Bleary and rushed, we arrived at the Omni on Amelia Island in time to ditch our bags, scramble into tennis gear, and dash to our first lesson. Fortunately, our young pros knew how to shake us up. They dove into learning our names (sort of), told us just enough about themselves to put us at ease, then outlined their plan for the next few days. Their passion for tennis was infectious and energizing.
As tired as we were that first day, we embraced the idea of the hotel cocktail hour followed by dinner on site. Disappointed with the clamor and the crowds, the adventurous “city girls” among us quickly decided we needed to explore the island dining scene. One called a friend who offered the names of the best restaurants nearby. Another tried to solve the transportation problem: how to deposit eight noisy ladies in a place that didn’t support Uber or Lyft or reasonably priced taxis. One of our pros knew a guy who knew a guy and we gamely wedged ourselves into a van designed to carry six, squirming and laughing all the way. We traded bites of fried green tomatoes and crispy oysters, succulent salmon, and flounder simmered in mole, affirming that our efforts to go “off campus,” were worth it.
Sam and Elliot packed our clinics with high paced, challenging drills, a thumping playlist, and the unbridled enthusiasm of youth. Their challenging tennis curriculum unfolded in real time and with every hour, we saw our mastery and strategy improve. Where they detected technical weaknesses in strokes or footwork, they addressed them on the spot, skillfully, without wounding us. With their direct, intuitive instruction, we each experienced unexpected ah-ha moments and new tennis words to live by. We learned, we laughed, we sang to the songs we requested on the blaring boombox. The hours flew by.
We had grand plans for our free time off the court. We were going to ride bikes around the island. We were going to kick butt on the pickle ball court. We would take long walks through the nature preserve. And yet we only made it to the beach, each of us required by the boldest and bossiest among us to step dutifully into the chilly water. While a few bobbed with the waves, most of us soaked up the sun and the magnificent view. In those few hours, we felt elated, tired, and satisfied, all at the same time.
Five o’clock of our final evening found us on the u-shaped couches by the poolside fireplace. Dressed for dinner and content with our day, we toasted tennis, our pros, our friendship. We addressed each other by the nicknames the pros had given us. Our camaraderie drew the attention of a woman walking by. “You guys are so cute! Where are you going next? I want to come!” Hmmm, good question. Where were we headed next?
Traveling with eight women is tricky. Working with new pros after training with a trusted coach could have been challenging. But there had been no reason to worry. Tennis was our glue, our shared passion, our favorite hobby. We enjoyed four flawless days of tennis, beach, dinners, and laughs. Our pros were fabulous instructors, and because we were used to being instructed, we learned a lot. (We hatched a few schemes to get Sam and Elliot to come to Vermont, and one even included an introduction to an age-appropriate unmarried daughter.) And I can honestly say, I have not laughed that hard or that long since the word “COVID” came to dominate my vocabulary.
We have all agreed that as long as we are healthy and able to travel, tennis camp will be our annual adventure. We will check out all the important stuff – the court surface, how many players per pro, how many hours of instruction. But here is what I learned at tennis camp – tennis is so much more than tennis. Tennis is friendship and joy, played with a racket and ball, wherever and whenever you can.
