The Gulf of Mexico is green. The sky is a pink sunset. I’m walking the shore. I have been stuck at a beach resort for two days, held against my will.

Today is the first day I’ve left my room in 48 hours because I’ve had a nice little cold. And a man can only drink so much NyQuil before he needs fresh air.

There are about 40 people on the beach. All dressed up. The attire is what I’d call TJMaxx formal. No shoes. Untucked shirts. Sundresses for the gals.

They all sit in folding chairs erected on the sand. Sixty chairs to be exact. One aisle. Five rows of six on each side.

The altar is driftwood, and looks like a lawsuit waiting to happen. The altar is adorned with high quality Kmart flowers. Positioned beside the altar is a neon traffic cone which reads—seriously—“WEDDING IN PROGRESS.” As though this ceremony might be mistaken for, say, a real estate closing.

I am crashing the wedding with a few other onlookers from the resort, standing behind the back rows.

My fellow crashers come from all over. Stillwater, Minnesota; Middletown, Delaware; Tulsa; Fayetteville. We’re all watching things go down.

Randy and Karen, the giant chalkboard says. That’s the bride’s and groom’s names. And I like them already. I grew up with Karens and Randys. Nobody names their kid Karen anymore.

Karen is a great name, viciously abused by the Internet people. Randy is a sturdy name—you’d buy a car from a guy named Randy.

Randy and Karen are not kids. Randy’s hair is salt-and-pepper. His chin patch is white. He is not small, but he’s not tall either. He looks like he could be a construction guy, or nightclub security. There is a tattoo of a skull on his neck.

Karen is mid-fifties. Her hair is more purple than red. Her dress is sleeveless. She wears a flower in her hair. There is a tattoo of the Alabama State flag on her shoulder.

The wind is blowing. A photographer is moving to and fro. A musician is playing some Styx on a Takamine guitar.

The preacher is Karen’s brother-in-law. He is tall. Like he could have been a first-string point guard at the University of Kentucky. Reverend Brother-In-Law tells everyone that Karen and Randy met at AA, almost 22 years ago.

They both have the tokens to prove it.

Several of the people in the congregation, come to find out, have tokens of their own.

Karen and Randy did not have romantic feelings toward one another at first. They simply hung out. They supported each other. They’ve been through a lot.

There was that one time, Karen says, when she fell off the wagon. And Randy was her only lifeline.

There were other times. The time when Karen’s and Randy’s families rejected them for being nothing more than a couple of addicts. In fact, almost none of their family members even attended this wedding, Randy and Karen say. No brothers. No aunts and uncles. No parents.

There have been some other times, too. Times when Randy and Karen had to abandon their own schedules because they were sponsoring someone who is sitting in this audience. Someone who needed a friend.

These people are all friends. And I get the impression that, sometimes, these people have had few in their lives but each other.

Karen and Randy recite their own vows. The ceremonial promises are simple. The rest of the wedding is, more or less, by the book. “Karen, repeat after me…” “Randy, do you promise…?”

But I recognize the closing prayer. It is uttered by nearly everyone in attendance. In unison. A prayer of love.

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference.”

Randy, you may kiss your bride.