Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
Once a year, like tax returns and mammograms, I’m due for a family camping trip.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against nature so long as it stays outside. But the logic of trading an air-conditioned refuge with indoor plumbing for sand, bugs and a moldy tent is a stretch for many civilized females. Unfortunately, my kids inherited the Wild Kingdom gene from their father.
Here’s the irony: We live 20 minutes from Myrtle Beach, a mecca of lazy rivers, ocean views, king-size beds and room service, which is my idea of natural resources. We could be pitching camp in a four-star hotel and support the local economy by slurping frozen margaritas and adopting a homeless hermit crab. But Hubby thinks we need an uninhabited, Starbucks-free island for the genuine back-to-nature experience.
Translation: Bring your own toilet paper.
The highlight of this year’s trip was my oldest daughter’s new boyfriend, who had apparently
been quarantined during his Boy Scout years, so this was his first up-close-and-personal encounter with Mama Nature. I’m not sure where my daughter found this guy, but it wasn’t Bass Pro.
Eager to impress her, the boyfriend laid out his Dockers and Izods for the trip. He was heartbroken to learn he couldn’t bring them on hangers.
He grinned bravely but was already losing points on Daddy’s Machismometer. New boyfriend would either emerge from this trip as a keeper, or get thrown back like some anorexic fish. Dad and daughter were sure to compare notes later.
At the campsite, where it was easily 110 degrees, the boyfriend emerged from his tent looking like he was trying to elude the paparazzi. Buried under wraparound shades and a hooded fleece jacket, two nostrils peeked out above the beach towel he’d wrapped around his face for extra protection from the elements, such as air.
“Is he planning to rob a bank?” Hubby whispered.
“He says he’s allergic to sand,” I said.
By noon, the boyfriend was completely covered with mysterious red welts and ferociously scratching himself with both hands and the only foot he wasn't hopping on. The camp stew didn’t seem to agree with him either.
He ducked behind a sand dune one last time while the rest of us dismantled our tents and loaded the boat for premature departure. My daughter was urging us to leave him there, when he started hollering and leaping around like maybe he was having fun after all. But that wasn’t it. Apparently, an audacious crab discovered him in a compromising position, which required Hubby to rescue them both with a pair of pliers.
Don’t worry about the ex-boyfriend. He’ll find happiness with a compatible “indoor” girl someday, when his ego recovers and his stitches heal. And my disillusioned daughter will keep searching for a younger version of Daddy.
But I’ll always remember this guy fondly for rescuing me from the annual adventure and helping me write this column.
Allergic to sand. Why didn’t I think of that?
Jan A. Igoe is a wife, mother, newspaper editor, humorist and illustrator. She lives in Horry County.