vi...vi...victorious
Unevenly sunburnt, I have returned in tact from the wilderness and having finally gone camping, I can't recall what I imagined it to be before I left the city. What I remember from the weekend is a relaxed haze of sun and sand and tents and portable stovetops.
The night before we left, stops were made at Home Depot for charcoal and mosquitoe repellent and Ralph's for ice and baked beans. The boyfriend and I had tried to pack up my car with the necessary provisions but found the task to be confounding, even for two college graduates. I feared that I would have to make the trip with a tent in my rear-view mirror. Nevertheless, we set out on Saturday morning with bagels and croissants balanced on our laps and all our supplies packed neatly like groupies backstage.
If you've ever driven down the 5 freeway from Los Angeles to San Diego, you'll know that about half way there are two huge domes that sit west of the freeway. They look at once like observatories and gigantic cement boobs and they are part of the Southern California Edison nuclear power plant. That's where you will find San Onofre State Beach, a popular place for surfers because the plant uses water to cool the nuclear reactors which is then flushed into the ocean making it nice and warm. As if it has been freshly peed in. Great for catching waves.
We arrived at the beach around noon and found our friends staked out next to a cliffside path marked Beach Trail #6. A blue canopy shielded a couple of guys watching FIFA soccer on a tiny television while the ladies laid out on towels, bronzing in the sun. Immediately, the boyfriend and I threw off our clothes and shone bright and pale for all to see. Somewhere, a coastal fishing boat thought they saw a lighthouse. The responsible me began applying SPF 45 to preserve my skin's "freshly fallen snow" look which I love so much. However, the incompetent me who cannot complete the simplest of tasks neglected to reach every part of my back; an oversight which I did not discover until the next day when I awoke to a burning patch on my skin. More on that later. The afternoon was spent turning over, eating hot dogs, taking photos, watching shirtless boys with bellies playing wiffle ball, playing smash ball on a precariously pebbly beach, hiking up a cliff to pee and surfing, or what the people who observed me trying to surf might call "getting your ass beat by an angry saltwater Mike Tyson." This was one of the highlights of my trip.
Our friends Bobby and Kim kindly lent the boyfriend and me their surfboards and gear. I have taken one surfing lesson in my life and it was in Hawaii with a private instructor and it was on a longboard which is essentially like a raft. The waves were calm and I felt pretty confident that that one one-hour lesson would qualify me as a Blue Crush pro. I pulled a borrowed moist Roxy rash guard over my arms and felt its cool cling against my body. I grabbed a surfboard and headed into the sea. The waves were of a good size but they were breaking in twenty second intervals. The boyfriend forged ahead, never having taken a lesson but being brave and living up to his shaggy haircut's beach bum first impression. The sand gave way to small stones which were a bit painful to walk on which in turn became smoother stones and finally sand again. I held onto the board and jumped into wave after wave, trying to reach the calm surface I could see just a few lengths away. My master plan: reach the calm swell between waves, turn the board toward the shore, paddle paddle paddle, pop (up), ride to glory. I never made it through those waves. On more than a few dozen occasions, the waves enveloped me with their saline arms and essentially clotheslined me into the rocks. I refused to give up and was slammed repeatedly onto my ass, my back, my front; the ocean proclaiming me its bitch and me, too disoriented to protest. The surfboard was flung to the end of its leash attached to my ankle. I retrieved it time and again until after one particularly strong wave, it sailed above my head and came back to smack me in the face. I can still feel the bruise on my cheek and hear Bobby's sympathetic laughter. He served as the sole witness to my marine ass kicking. The boyfriend came back unscathed.
The caravan packed up around 6pm and we trudged up the cliff to our cars and headed to the campsite which was further east. Over six hours in the sun had taken its toll on the campers and everyone muddled through their showers and assembled around the unlit campfire to relax before dinner. I, too, took a shower and found it to be infinitely more pleasant than I had expected. The tiles were a mix of brown and yellow, a color-scheme indubitably selected to mask the assorted human stains to be worn in through years of public use. The water temperature was perfect though and I stood under the stream of my 50 cents worth for a few extra minutes even though I was finished with the actual cleaning portion of my shower. It may have been during that moment that I lost my resolve to be anti-germ. I realized that I possessed only a finite amount of energy to be expended during the trip and that I shouldn't be wasting it on worrying about dirt. I emerged from the stall a changed person. And then I quickly zipped myself up in our tent and hot boxed it with a can of aerosol mosquito repellent.
A roaring fire was lit in the heavy steel cauldron that was in the center of the campsite. The sun left the sky and the fire warmed the ground. Those who could muster the energy, milled around the makeshift kitchen and cooked up a fantastic dinner. We feasted on asparagus wrapped in proscuitto, burgers on toasted sesame seed buns, homemade coleslaw and pasta salad, red potatoes roasted with butter and rosemary, satanic Bush's baked beans and the requisite S'mores for dessert. It was a gourmet spread. A lull settled over the group as each person finished their meal and reflected on the day's events. It was a comfortable time with a lot of silent moments. Odd perhaps for the number of people, but a sign of secure friendships or possibly sunstroke.
A few members of the group returned to the city. A few fell asleep in their chairs as the fire crackled before us. A few left the circle to retire to their tents. It was a peaceful evening. No one checked their watch. A log or two was added to the fire. The boyfriend and I stayed up the latest with another friend, talking about the old days in college and the days to come. We were the last to go to sleep. I had been delaying my bedtime as much as possible so that I would be so uncontrollably exhausted that I would simply faint my way into the night's slumber. No such luck. The boyfriend and I climbed into our tent followed by a few curious insects with crunchy exoskeletons that could not be squished. I had to grab one with a sweatshirt and deposit him outside the zippered flap which was our front (or back) door. The boyfriend and I said goodnight, me on my foam fold-out mattress and he on the solid earth. Within moments, were again outside the tent, having realized that we needed to pee once more before turning in. There we stood, in the darkness, in our underwear, peeing in the woods while our friends slept a few feet away. I squatted next to him and giggled, my laughter weaving into the symphony of crickets in the brush around us. He tried not to splatter me with urine.
In the deep greyness of night, I laid awake in our tent. There was peace and calm in the air. The insects called to each other. In the very far distance, I could hear the faint hum of civilization. In the next tent, I could hear Bobby snoring. I stared at the outline of the boyfriend until my eyes adjusted to his shape. I snuggled next to him as best I could, compensating for the height difference of my foam mat.
"Is it hard?" I asked, hoping he was comfortable.
"NO!" he retorted with "don't flatter yourself" disdain. A very puzzling response. It took me a moment but then I realized he had mistaken my inquiry as a seductive advance.
"The ground," I asserted. What a cocky bastard. I looked up at the shadows of the tent slanting towards my head and put in my earplugs. I fell asleep soon after.
I was one of the first people to wake up the next morning. Probably because the evidence of my inept sunscreen application had finally risen to the epidermal layer and caused me considerable pain. I looked at the red marks with curiosity. It was positively tribal. I emerged from the tent and soon the picnic table kitchen was bustling again with the sounds of eggs being cracked and scrambled. The campers emerged from their domes and rubbed their eyes to a new day in the woods. After breakfast burritos and coffee, the caravan was again mounted and we returned to the city with smokey hair and uneven sunburns. Badges to prove our victory over our self-imposed hardship. Veni, vidi, campy.
The night before we left, stops were made at Home Depot for charcoal and mosquitoe repellent and Ralph's for ice and baked beans. The boyfriend and I had tried to pack up my car with the necessary provisions but found the task to be confounding, even for two college graduates. I feared that I would have to make the trip with a tent in my rear-view mirror. Nevertheless, we set out on Saturday morning with bagels and croissants balanced on our laps and all our supplies packed neatly like groupies backstage.
If you've ever driven down the 5 freeway from Los Angeles to San Diego, you'll know that about half way there are two huge domes that sit west of the freeway. They look at once like observatories and gigantic cement boobs and they are part of the Southern California Edison nuclear power plant. That's where you will find San Onofre State Beach, a popular place for surfers because the plant uses water to cool the nuclear reactors which is then flushed into the ocean making it nice and warm. As if it has been freshly peed in. Great for catching waves.
We arrived at the beach around noon and found our friends staked out next to a cliffside path marked Beach Trail #6. A blue canopy shielded a couple of guys watching FIFA soccer on a tiny television while the ladies laid out on towels, bronzing in the sun. Immediately, the boyfriend and I threw off our clothes and shone bright and pale for all to see. Somewhere, a coastal fishing boat thought they saw a lighthouse. The responsible me began applying SPF 45 to preserve my skin's "freshly fallen snow" look which I love so much. However, the incompetent me who cannot complete the simplest of tasks neglected to reach every part of my back; an oversight which I did not discover until the next day when I awoke to a burning patch on my skin. More on that later. The afternoon was spent turning over, eating hot dogs, taking photos, watching shirtless boys with bellies playing wiffle ball, playing smash ball on a precariously pebbly beach, hiking up a cliff to pee and surfing, or what the people who observed me trying to surf might call "getting your ass beat by an angry saltwater Mike Tyson." This was one of the highlights of my trip.
Our friends Bobby and Kim kindly lent the boyfriend and me their surfboards and gear. I have taken one surfing lesson in my life and it was in Hawaii with a private instructor and it was on a longboard which is essentially like a raft. The waves were calm and I felt pretty confident that that one one-hour lesson would qualify me as a Blue Crush pro. I pulled a borrowed moist Roxy rash guard over my arms and felt its cool cling against my body. I grabbed a surfboard and headed into the sea. The waves were of a good size but they were breaking in twenty second intervals. The boyfriend forged ahead, never having taken a lesson but being brave and living up to his shaggy haircut's beach bum first impression. The sand gave way to small stones which were a bit painful to walk on which in turn became smoother stones and finally sand again. I held onto the board and jumped into wave after wave, trying to reach the calm surface I could see just a few lengths away. My master plan: reach the calm swell between waves, turn the board toward the shore, paddle paddle paddle, pop (up), ride to glory. I never made it through those waves. On more than a few dozen occasions, the waves enveloped me with their saline arms and essentially clotheslined me into the rocks. I refused to give up and was slammed repeatedly onto my ass, my back, my front; the ocean proclaiming me its bitch and me, too disoriented to protest. The surfboard was flung to the end of its leash attached to my ankle. I retrieved it time and again until after one particularly strong wave, it sailed above my head and came back to smack me in the face. I can still feel the bruise on my cheek and hear Bobby's sympathetic laughter. He served as the sole witness to my marine ass kicking. The boyfriend came back unscathed.
The caravan packed up around 6pm and we trudged up the cliff to our cars and headed to the campsite which was further east. Over six hours in the sun had taken its toll on the campers and everyone muddled through their showers and assembled around the unlit campfire to relax before dinner. I, too, took a shower and found it to be infinitely more pleasant than I had expected. The tiles were a mix of brown and yellow, a color-scheme indubitably selected to mask the assorted human stains to be worn in through years of public use. The water temperature was perfect though and I stood under the stream of my 50 cents worth for a few extra minutes even though I was finished with the actual cleaning portion of my shower. It may have been during that moment that I lost my resolve to be anti-germ. I realized that I possessed only a finite amount of energy to be expended during the trip and that I shouldn't be wasting it on worrying about dirt. I emerged from the stall a changed person. And then I quickly zipped myself up in our tent and hot boxed it with a can of aerosol mosquito repellent.
A roaring fire was lit in the heavy steel cauldron that was in the center of the campsite. The sun left the sky and the fire warmed the ground. Those who could muster the energy, milled around the makeshift kitchen and cooked up a fantastic dinner. We feasted on asparagus wrapped in proscuitto, burgers on toasted sesame seed buns, homemade coleslaw and pasta salad, red potatoes roasted with butter and rosemary, satanic Bush's baked beans and the requisite S'mores for dessert. It was a gourmet spread. A lull settled over the group as each person finished their meal and reflected on the day's events. It was a comfortable time with a lot of silent moments. Odd perhaps for the number of people, but a sign of secure friendships or possibly sunstroke.
A few members of the group returned to the city. A few fell asleep in their chairs as the fire crackled before us. A few left the circle to retire to their tents. It was a peaceful evening. No one checked their watch. A log or two was added to the fire. The boyfriend and I stayed up the latest with another friend, talking about the old days in college and the days to come. We were the last to go to sleep. I had been delaying my bedtime as much as possible so that I would be so uncontrollably exhausted that I would simply faint my way into the night's slumber. No such luck. The boyfriend and I climbed into our tent followed by a few curious insects with crunchy exoskeletons that could not be squished. I had to grab one with a sweatshirt and deposit him outside the zippered flap which was our front (or back) door. The boyfriend and I said goodnight, me on my foam fold-out mattress and he on the solid earth. Within moments, were again outside the tent, having realized that we needed to pee once more before turning in. There we stood, in the darkness, in our underwear, peeing in the woods while our friends slept a few feet away. I squatted next to him and giggled, my laughter weaving into the symphony of crickets in the brush around us. He tried not to splatter me with urine.
In the deep greyness of night, I laid awake in our tent. There was peace and calm in the air. The insects called to each other. In the very far distance, I could hear the faint hum of civilization. In the next tent, I could hear Bobby snoring. I stared at the outline of the boyfriend until my eyes adjusted to his shape. I snuggled next to him as best I could, compensating for the height difference of my foam mat.
"Is it hard?" I asked, hoping he was comfortable.
"NO!" he retorted with "don't flatter yourself" disdain. A very puzzling response. It took me a moment but then I realized he had mistaken my inquiry as a seductive advance.
"The ground," I asserted. What a cocky bastard. I looked up at the shadows of the tent slanting towards my head and put in my earplugs. I fell asleep soon after.
I was one of the first people to wake up the next morning. Probably because the evidence of my inept sunscreen application had finally risen to the epidermal layer and caused me considerable pain. I looked at the red marks with curiosity. It was positively tribal. I emerged from the tent and soon the picnic table kitchen was bustling again with the sounds of eggs being cracked and scrambled. The campers emerged from their domes and rubbed their eyes to a new day in the woods. After breakfast burritos and coffee, the caravan was again mounted and we returned to the city with smokey hair and uneven sunburns. Badges to prove our victory over our self-imposed hardship. Veni, vidi, campy.
posted by Katie at 4:48 PM
1 Comments:
I feel so bad, I didn't know that you were burned so badly. I'm sorry to hear that...
-mrs. apice
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