//THE GREAT OUTDOORSMAN//
I love camping. But lately it’s been hard convincing the wife that it’s a worthwhile experience. I think this is due to our last adventure.
Almost two years ago, in the middle of the summer, we both took off from work to spend a few days at a nearby lake. This would be a waterborne adventure, as we had borrowed my father-in-law’s old ski/fishing boat. We’d zoom around the lake. Swim. Relax. Breathe clean air. Sleep in a tent. Make love beneath the stars. Leave the world behind.
Our adventure started off almost like a honeymoon, but ended almost like a funeral.
We were lone campers in that branch of the park. The view was spectacular. We launched the boat and were able to pull it up to the shoreline near our tent. The parking lot was about 20 yards from the site, which meant we could keep the bulk of our supplies in our truck and still have them close at hand.
The first day was breezy and sunny. Both being total whitebread, we loaded up on sunscreen and rode around in the boat for awhile. We packed a lunch and enjoyed floating aimlessly around the large lake. We got tired of that and pulled up to the shore at our campsite.
After swimming and frolicking a while at one of the fake-sand beaches, we lazed around the campsite, talking about whatever came to mind. We were sitting in the boat when the “mood” struck us.
“I bet it would be cool to ‘do it’ in the boat,” I said, in my usual, romantic way.
The wife smiled. “Get down here.”
And I of course obliged. Bumping and grinding in the boat, however, soon proved to be difficult. Dare I say it was painful. The split console barely left enough room to grind, so we bumped a bit. It was after one of the sheriff’s deputies did a routine drive-by that we decided to take the proceedings into our tent.
And it was hot, hot loving in all kinds of ways. We stripped down to nothing and enjoyed the gift of raw, physical marital bliss. After such heated, frantic, sweaty and absolutely awesome love-making, we were feeling fantastic and very close to each other.
But after said tryst, our outdoorsy escapade started to go downhill.
It was near dinner time, so we headed to the surprisingly clean and well-appointed shower facilities. Only strange thing that happened here was that the wife’s shower was interrupted by a little girl who barged into her stall. Hello? Kids!
After an uneventful dinner and *burp!* a cold, fermented tallboy, the sun started to dip into the lake. Beautiful! Our whitebread skin, though we thought it had been protected by the oft-reapplied sunscreen, was starting to ache with the all-day sun exposure. In a few hours, we’d feel like we were on fire (and not like the good way we had earlier). The breezy day had turned into a sticky, gusty evening – one that would find us barely sleeping as the tent flaps scraped against the poles all night long. Plus, our sunburn was getting worse.
The next morning, groggy, windblown and feeling really really toasted, we considered packing it in a day early. It seemed like a great idea, because we’d done about all we wanted to do the day before.
Our tent wasn’t quite empty when a gust knocked it down, it started to rain and we were feeling increasingly miserable. The rain subsided, we finished packing up and then turned to getting the boat to the nearest loading ramp.
I’d put our lawn chairs in the boat and upon walking back to the controls tripped over them and nearly broke a leg. Great! Strike One!
The wind was unrelenting and thus the current proved hard to navigate. While the wife tried to push me out, I started the engine and wound up churning up mud. Finally, after much yelling, pointing, flying mud and goosing the throttle, I broke free from the shoreline. The plan was for her to meet me at the ramp with the truck and trailer, we’d load up the boat and head home to relax the rest of the week.
This was not to be. And at this point we learned a hard lesson about keys, gravity and mud.
She had the truck keys in her pocket, but amid wrestling the boat from the mud ... they slipped into the water. She did not notice this until I was heading for the ramp, which was around a bend.
“I lost the keys! I lost the keys! You’ll have to help me find them!” She started to cry and started hunting for the shiny keys in the murky water. Strike Two!
Oh no! Floaty thing! Floaty thing! Sure, we’d put a floaty thing on the BOAT KEYS. We neglected to do the same for the truck keys. Stupid! Stupid!
I drove the boat to the ramp and pulled up to the shore, securing the line on a large rock. I hauled it back to the campsite, which was not as short a distance as I would have liked, and breathlessly reached the shore.
“Don’t be mad at me!” she cried. And I wasn’t. I was heartbroken that we’d lost the keys, but I hugged her tightly, kissed her, and joined the search. Not sure where my cooler head came from, but it prevailed.
Fortunately, the truck was unlocked. That gave us access our cell phone, and we called the park ranger to see if he had a magnet or something. Of course, he didn’t. He bounced over to us in this park pickup, but could only shrug his shoulders and squint into the water. He left us soon after, and we resumed our probe.
Hands and knees. Cool water. Strong current. Intermittent clouds and dim sun. Reflected clouds. Mud. No luck. For about an hour. Prayers. Not giving up. More prayers. More mud.
And as we were considering calling someone closer to the house (we were 90 minutes from home) to break into it and get our spare keys ... she looked down ... and found them a few feet from shore.
Thank you, sweet Jesus!
We rejoiced. We hugged. We kissed. We did a happy dance. We let go of held breaths.
It was such a miracle, we decided to chill for a bit. We even took the boat out for another spin in calmer water and had another pleasant onboard lunch. We looked at more wind-protected campsites nearby. We found the perfect spot in its own little lagoon, which offered a shaded, sheltered tent area and a quiet place for parking the boat. Considered for an oh-so-brief instant staying another night.
In the end, though, we were red as raspberries and now more worn out than ever. It was time to go. Strike Three! We’re out!
This time I had no trouble maneuvering the boat from its protected berth. She met me at the ramp with the truck. The current was even stronger between the two piers, but we wrestled the boat back onto its trailer. I secured it with the tie-downs, we took a deep breaths, and pointed toward home.
That was the last time we went camping and the last time we took the boat out. Our traumatic experience, coupled with an eventual pregnancy, meant bouncing around in the boat was not a viable option. Her dad towed it back up to Oklahoma soon after.
Sometimes I think how nice it would be to reserve that safe, protected campsite and spend a few days absorbing some nature. Maybe next time we’ll take a kayak or a canoe rather than a motorboat. Maybe the bikes. There will be floaty things attached to every valuable thing we take with us. Still, I have a feeling it will be a bit longer before we get the urge to actually camp again.
And I have a feeling the wife, my strong, intelligent, sweet, beautiful, vivacious, sexy, sometimes-outdoorsy wife, will want only to hear all about what fun the Cutlet and I had camping without her.
