Camping "Fun:" Part IV

I've been circling the drain on this particular topic for some time as it isn't what you would call polite, appealing, pleasing, or pure. But it's time to let a little fresh air on the subject. Traumatized, Sydney and I had sought counseling until our therapist told us that the reason you can't hear a psychiatrist in the restroom is because the "p" is silent. This was not the compassionate shoulder that we needed. 

When one thinks of Adventure Camping, things like hiking trails, wildlife encounters, beach combing, and water sports may come to mind. Well...now that I think about it, if forced, I would have to place my topic...reluctantly...under water sports. But this was a sport with no decisive winner. 

Pulling up to our reserved camping spot, I was initially pleased to see the restrooms were within easy walking distance. The square building housed four stalls with water spigots accessible from the outside. I was perfectly fine with this. I'm not the Queen, for goodness sake, and do not require a palace to perform my royal duties. 

Sydney and I immediately proclaimed ourselves "bathroom buddies." Brad is a man. 'nuff said. Savannah pretends that she can handle any and all situations effortlessly and without complaint. Sydney and I have elevated complaining to an art form. 

How innocent we were...on that first encounter. Don't get me wrong...we'd experienced our share of porta-potty problems...ran from many a toxic travel restroom site...layered a mattress-worth of tp as a barrier against unsanitary seats of shame. We'd long-honed Olympic-level skills of balance and breath-holding that would have easily made us contenders for tight-rope walking or oyster diving. But NOTHING prepared us for this.

I wasn't in the stall...cell...putrid petri dish...for three seconds before I had make my assessment. While I obviously envied the ability of the scorpions, Argentinian ants, and coyotes to be able to utilize nature's bathroom, I was not in the position (muscular/modest/mutilated) to emulate their wild ways. I would have to make due with my current accommodations. 

Imagine the bottom of a well. The lighting. The dampness. The closed-in, slimy quarters. Dripping. Stunted sound. Ewww...your shoes. Ewww....you want me to sit WHERE? I mean hover. Questionable pre-moistened toilet paper.

"Sydney," I gasped, re-emerging from this hell backwards as it lacked the negotiability for me to turn around without touching SOMETHING. "I need you to hold the door one third of the way open. Stand in the gap, facing outwards. Hold your phone behind your back with flashlight mode on. If I fail to successfully complete my mission in less than a minute...call the authorities." Rolling her eyes a bit, my daughter followed my instructions and I dove out of that dump in 14.7 seconds. I offered to reciprocate for my potty partner but she was confident of her capabilities. I heard whimpering before the door completely closed...like a coffin. "Sydney," I shouted. "This is NOT okay," I heard her whimper. My potty protocols were then immediately put in place for Sydney. 

My obligatory 2 am visit was the most bearable because at least, at that time, I could safely have the door completely open. "Is this even legal?" Sydney asked as we clung to each other on the short walk back to our campsite. "What's that Geneva Convention even for, if not for situations like this?" We prayed for sleep to take us as we were living in a nightmare.

Morning arrived...bringing with it...unexpected hope. "Mom! The park's maintenance crew has arrived to clean the restrooms." This was a sight that could not be missed. It was tantamount to viewing the Northern Lights or witnessing the migration of the wildebeests across Kenya. One might be forgiven for missing the birth of a first child but I cannot imagine the regret felt if you missed the transformative cleaning and sanitation of this sh*thole. Hair disheveled, rumbled pajamas. out-of-breath...we ran as both witness and to be first-in-line, stopping short at the sight that greeted us.

Steering a small water truck (Sydney and I paused in supplicant prayer that the truck was filled with either pure bleach or hand sanitizer), a park employee pulled up in front of the building. He unfurled a fireman's hose, propped open one door before bodily bracing himself and blasting away at the interior. Where were the sponges? The mops? The disinfectants? "At least light a match," Sydney begged as he proceeded to sand-blast the remaining rooms. Mortified, we peeked in as he drove away. You could have wrung out the rolls of toilet paper (if you were brave enough to touch them in the first place). 

There was only one option left. 

Naturally, we spent the bulk of our time in the ocean. "Of all the things in the world to be afraid of," I told my bathroom buddy as we floated like buoyant bobbers, "who knew I'd rank a shart over a shark?"