As I huddled in my sleeping bag, curled up in a tight ball and covering my small, cold ears with equally small, cold hands, I couldn’t believe I had been excited to go camping. The wind howled outside like a wronged demon and it beat emphatically against the tent as I imagined long talons digging into balled fists while it unleashed its fury. Its roar was dampened only by the relentless rain, which, along with the howl, had quickly turned what had been a secure and exciting fortress of canvas into a frail barrier, resisting but losing the battle to nature’s might.
…
My uncle is crazy. Everyone has that person, usually an uncle, in their family who they call crazy. But my uncle really is. Among his list of exploits, he has scaled Mount Kilimanjaro, kayaked amongst polar bears in Alaska, and, on one trip that my grandfather loves to fondly reminisce, he caught fish in freezing water with a homemade spear. This is the man who offered to take us on a camping trip, and so it is fitting that it became quite an adventure.
Chesapeake Bay had seemed innocent enough. It is one of the few places you can go to see wild horses grazing peacefully on pristine beaches, a pleasant area filled with family friendly camping spots. We found one with a premade fire pit and a grill in case you were too lazy to use the former, and set up our tents not much more than 60 feet from the car. Just over a grassy sand dune was a beach, and the endless blue of the ocean, which I used to gaze over in awe, trying to imagine the alien places whose shores the great beast lapped simultaneously.
…
Apparently there was a tornado on the beach that night. All I knew at the time was that the world was coming to an end. I was sure the tent would collapse any second and be thrown around the sky like a rag-doll with me still wailing inside. I couldn’t understand why neither my mom nor my uncle, who had their own tents not far away, had yet to come to my rescue (later I would learn that my mom had been equally terrified, and my uncle had been sleeping peacefully). I didn’t have much of a life to flash before my eyes, but I was so convinced of my demise I tried to remember the good times anyway. I thought of the ocean—all those places I would never see! I started making deals with everybody and anybody, from God to Zeus to Michael Jordan: “I’ll never practice being a barber on my sister again, just let me survive the night!”
The screeching wind mocked my pleas and seemed to only harass the tent more in response. Then, a new development pried its way into my consciousness… the water flooding the ground around the tent began to worm its way through the zipper at the bottom of the tent flap. Slowly but surely the floor of my small, one-man shelter turned into a swimming pool with no life guard in sight.
…
The next morning, my mom and uncle discovered me on top of a picnic table. Forced to evacuate the sinking ship, I had bolted from the entrance and run head down against the stinging rain, ending my dash with a theatrical dive and roll that left me a good five feet short from my destination. After pushing myself back up off the ground, I crawled frantically to the small reprieve offered by the sturdy wood. When all had calmed down (thank the lords), I had been too exhausted to make my way back to my tent, so had simply pulled myself atop the table and passed out.
As I sat on the edge and rubbed the broken sleep out of my eyes, the air had never tasted sweeter, and the beach never seemed so calm. I decided I might like camping after all.