Camping "Fun:" Part I

By now, we are all VERY well acquainted with my profound love of the great outdoors. So it was no great surprise that, after three leisurely, fun-filled weeks in San Diego, Savannah would conclude my visit with a camping trip. Because...you know...my profound love of the great outdoors and all that. It sounded so exciting. No cell service. Hour long ferry ride on the ocean (How many blogs have been devoted to my extreme motion sickness?). Carry my own water. Hiking. Savannah showed me her pouch of dried egg powder. Fun. Couldn't wait.

But...oh no! Two days before departure, as I was sipping the coffee that Lisa had made me  as I sat on the patio, debating watching another four or five episodes of Downton Abby or taking a dip in the pool, Savannah shared the devastating news she'd just received from the ferry service warning of high water swells. Passengers ten years old or younger were banned from transport (lucky devils) and those who were prone to motion sickness (Me! Me! Me-Me-Me-Me!) were strongly encouraged to postpone. After some discussion, our group decided to pull the plug on our great adventure. I was devastated. 

Unbeknownst to me, while I was busy drowning my sorrows by doing backwards somersaults in the pool, Lisa was busy researching alternative camping adventures. My opinion of her, rather high up to this point, plummeted. Soon the car was packed and I was stuffed, unceremoniously, into the front seat, waving good-bye to Lisa who couldn't come because of work obligations. Liar.

This isn't possible, I thought to myself, staring blindly at on-coming traffic. I have NEVER, in my life, pretended to even remotely love camping. Why was I being punished this way? But wait!!! Maybe it was a ruse! Maybe my family was just pulling a funny little prank on me and we were ACTUALLY driving to The Del...the beautiful beachfront hotel located in Coronado, featured in the movie Some Like It Hot. I closed my eyes, imagining myself sipping a colorful cocktail delivered to me in my cabana, scampering along the soft, gold-flecked sand, discovering shells, listening to the band play in the evening. Pure heaven.

I opened my eyes. An hour or more had passed. "What are those large round buildings?" I asked as Savannah flicked on her turn signal. "Nuclear reactors," Savannah replied, as she pulled the car into the park entrance. Gingerly, I extricated myself from the vehicle, flinching as a helicopter flew fifty feet above my head. Turns out, we were also next-door neighbors of Camp Pendleton, which, by the way, is NOT a 4-H or YMCA camp. Brad was delighted, happily identifying each type of chopper as it flew by (every ten minutes).  Across from parking lot, a passenger train roared by. I could tell by the expressions of the riders that they felt sorry for me. How I longed for the old days, when one could run gamely alongside a boxcar and jump inside.

You know me, no matter the situation, I am going to make the best of things. But let me state, inequitably, that it is NOT A VACATION if you have to construct your own shelter!!! Now, I'm not saying that I ACTUALLY did that myself...

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PHILOSOPHICAL THOUGHT:

It's funny...no matter the time or distance, whenever a family reunites, each person seems to lapse back into their original roles. Sydney and I realized this immediately when, on the precipice of hiking down the steep, one mile path to the ocean, Brad and Savannah said it would be easier if they ran back to camp to gather supplies while Syd and I began our trek. "We'll catch up to you before you're even a quarter of the way down," they reassured us. "You know," I told Sydney in disgust, as we carefully made our way down, pausing at each shade opportunity offered, "In this scenario, they think we're Shaggy and Scooby-Doo." "It's insulting, really," Sydney agreed, pausing to take a sip of water as we watched Brad and Savannah juggling chairs, fins, and coolers in the distance. "I'm hungry," she admitted, smiling in thanks as I pulled a package of gummies, a string cheese, and a snack-sized bag of chips from my hoodie pocket. 

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Speaking of trains, I watched dispassionately as my two engineer-minded family members sprang into action, assembling the tent. Assigned the important duty of holding on to one of the poles ("Don't lose it," my husband warned.), I sighed to Sydney who had just lost her job of banging in tent stakes with a rock because she angled them the wrong way. "If Officer Ivan were here, he would balance this pole on his nose," I informed my daughter knowingly. We looked at each other. Game on!

Some time later, Brad asked for the pole. I looked around, confused. "You were just balancing it on your nose," he reminded me. "Yeah...I know," I stammered, mentally re-tracing my footsteps. "I wrote our names in the dirt with it," I said, showing him the heart. He nodded. Of course. "Then I flicked an Argentinian ant off part of the tent." "How did you know its nationality?" Brad wondered. "Was it carrying its country's flag?" I explained how I had read the notices of an Argentinian ant invasion posted on what the state park delusionally called the restrooms.  "Is that anything like the British invasion?" Brad inquired. "Oh!" I remembered, "I thought I saw a scorpion over there by those scraggly weeds." We walked over to investigate. Sure enough, the tent pole was there. "Did you actually see anything?" Brad asked, picking up the abandoned investigation tool/possible weapon. "No," I admitted, "I got scared and ran away." 

Brad spent some time reassuring me that scorpions prefer a desert habitat and the likelihood of an insect infestation was minimal. As he walked away to finish constructing my shelter to ensure my survival on my vacation, I looked sullenly over at Sydney. "Isn't MOST of California considered a desert climate?" She nodded sadly, peering suspiciously into the undergrowth. Standing, I carefully picked up a stick and walked over to the now-erected tent, my new home, and flicked another ant off of it. "That's two," I whispered, "What number constitutes an invasion?" Realizing that nature was soon certain to come a'calling, Sydney Lynn voiced the terror that truly lay within our hearts. "Never mind the scorpions or Argentinian ants. Forget that we could stumble to our deaths off the ocean cliffs. Don't worry about riptides, jellyfish stings, sharks, or even a good old fashioned drowning. We still have to face those bathrooms." 

Cue screaming.

This was pure hell.