#NerdsUnite: Confessions of a ginger (How Not to Camp on a Beach)

Jan 10

<editorsnote> Nerds, meet my buddy Layne. I forget how we first started talking ... I think it was on twitter, and then we totes became besties on Facebook, and then we started reading each other's blogs and like commenting and like and like and like ... this chick is RAD annndd she's a ginger. No, seriously. Welcome to the world of Layne and the thoughts that are inside of her head. HIT IT GIRL! </editorsnote>

#TalkNerdyToMeLover's @redheadintexas

You would think camping on a beach sounds both awesome and simple. While you'd be right about the "awesome" part, simple is relative as it can all go so, so wrong. Below, I plan to outline how my one and only venture at camping on the beach panned out, so that you, dear nerds, can learn from the mistakes of others.

Back in the day, I ran with a pretty nerdy, but badass group of gals. One in particular remains my best friend to this day. Her name is Kimmy, and I will probably end up referring to her as "the Neuroscientist" more than her actual name in future posts. One, because the fact that she is a neuroscientist (technically, she's a cognitive neuroscientist) is awesome, and two, because it helps my own ego by association. (I mean, between dating a rocket scientist and having a neuroscientist as a bff, I have all sorts of shit covered.) Another was Karen* who actually worked at Whole Earth Provision Co., a store sort of like REI: all things outdoors and more. She was our crew's uberhippy, who made yearly treks to Bonnaroo and Phish concerts galore.

Side note: Nerds, remember this: as you get older, the number of people you trust and will rely on will shrink down from your 463 friends and acquaintances to a circle of trust that likely fits at a normal sized dining room table. This is not a bad thing, as Abby (@abby_cake) has posted about before, it's quality over quantity… so surround yourself with people who not only add value to your own life, but that are constantly challenging you and teaching you new things. I cannot stress the importance of this enough.

Ok, back to the story.

So Kimmy, our friend Karen, and I all decided to take a trip down to Galveston, Texas (about one hour south of downtown Houston) to camp ON the beach. We packed up the essentials, like sleeping bags, towels, flashlights, bug spray, snacks, water, tunes, a guitar, etc., and Kimmy's ancient dog, Zeke, and headed toward Highway 45. Since Kimmy lived by herself, she wasn't about to leave her fifteen year old dog alone overnight. Zeke was a small, papillon-eared mutt, half blind and mostly deaf. He was our mascot, we considered him part of the crew.

Once we got to the island, we hit up a local big box store to load up on cigarettes, purchase a cooler, adult beverages (read: six-packs of Modelo…no glass on the beach!), ice and the all important key-to-camping-on-the-beach-item: a tarp.

Also, said big box store is where a snack-withdrawal-influenced decision was made, one that would turn out to be an near fatal error: the Neuroscientist purchased a package of ready-made shrimp with cocktail sauce. I know you're thinking, "Why would this be a near fatal error? Who doesn't love shrimp cocktail, especially fresh gulf shrimp?" Just wait, dear reader, I will enlighten you. By the end of this story, you will understand why I can't talk about shrimp without calling them "the fucking shrimp."

We get checked out and haul our bounty back out to Karen's SUV, heading west on Seawall Boulevard, toward Jamaica Beach. At least, I think we ended up somewhere around Jamaica Beach… the point was to find a spot with little to no other beach-goers, and also to be far enough away from residences that we wouldn't cause any kind of noise disturbance or incite the wrath of a neighborhood watch. I mean, we were three 21ish-year-olds camping on a beach; we were young, not completely incompetent. Kimmy wasn't actually a neuroscientist yet, but she was on her way, so keep that in mind as well.

Although, looking back, this whole plan was disturbingly devoid of any and all common sense. Live and learn, yes?

What we were actually looking for at this point, was a place with vehicular beach access. In order for our air tight master plan of genius to work, we needed to get Karen's SUV onto the beach. Once we found it, we parked and immediately jumped out of the truck, kicked off our flip-flops, and ran into the surf. Like you do. Then, we decided to make camp.

But we didn't bring a tent, nope, we were going to SLEEP UNDER THE STARS! BE ONE WITH NATURE! BASK IN THE GLORY OF THE LIGHT OF THE MILKY WAY! Etcetera. This is where the tarp really came into play. We planned to lay our sleeping bags on the tarp, creating a barrier between our beds and the wet beach. We thought we were clever, oh how we thought we were soooo clever. The neuroscientist suggested we go ahead and lay out our sleeping bags and pillows then and there, in case we were too drunk and/or tired to manage it later. We unpacked the tarp, spread it out, and laid our sleeping bags on top. We then used some good-sized rocks sourced from a nearby hill to anchor it in place, as the beach was a bit windy that evening (this is important, remember this fact). We put the beer on ice and set out three folding chairs. Zeke curled up on a sleeping bag and settled in.

I believe at this point, Karen stripped down to her skivvies and ran full-throttle into the beckoning, moonlit waves. She was fun like that. Meanwhile, Kimmy remembered the shrimp cocktail purchased earlier, and started gathering the various snack foods together to make a little beach-buffet laid out in the cargo area of the SUV. After popping open the serving tray and peeling back the plastic film on the cocktail sauce, we discovered a problem. Kimmy held up the shrimp, all suspended in one frozen-solid ring, mimicking it's shape with one syllable: "oh." Well, the fucking shrimp would have to wait, since they needed to thaw. Kimmy set the shrimp aside and we nibbled on the less-frozen options.

We drank, smoked, and sang along to some tunes wafting out of the opened back-end of the truck. The Neuroscientist played guitar, while we enjoyed the serenity of the evening. I decided to get my feet wet again, as we were at the beach. So, I rolled my pant legs up a bit higher and walked down to the water. I had been going through some sort of phase wherein I couldn't be bothered to keep my cigarettes in the boxes they came in. Instead, I would transfer them to a metal cigarette case, which I would regret soon enough. The other ladies joined me and we proceeded to do our very best Ariel (of Little Mermaid fame) impressions by flipping our hair over our heads, dipping the ends in the water, and flinging our heads back in what I am sure we thought were graceful arcs, then critiquing each others' techniques. We'd had a little to drink, y'all.

It was during one of my best redheaded mermaid moments that as I whipped my head up and back, I heard a sound somewhat between a plunk and a splash to my right. Kimmy's voice rang out into the night air: "Layne! Your cigarettes!!!" I looked down and spied my engraved metal cigarette case suspended on top of the undulating sea just before it filled with water and sank. I plunged my hand into the water to reclaim it, but it was too late. My cigarettes could not be saved. Waterlogged and swollen, they stared up at me from their salty grave, mocking. You see, the genius of the cigarette box is that it would float long enough to be plucked from the water before any real damage could be done. A metal case, on the other hand, would not.

Can I just say how glad I am that I quit smoking?

We headed back to our tarp and toweled off. While drying my hair, I noticed a certain dampness to the outer shell of my sleeping bag. I placed my hand on the material to check, and was greeted by a fine, yet soaking layer of water. I checked my pillow… also wet. I looked up at the Neuroscientist and asked, "Hey dude, is your sleeping bag wet?" Kimmy checked her own and found that it too was sodden. A glimmer of recognition sparked in her eyes… "SEA MIST!!! THE BAGS ARE COVERED IN SEA MIST!!!" Great. We've discovered a few holes in the air-tight master plan of genius, remember how I said it was particularly windy that night? Yes, well… wind plus sea equals sea mist. The Neuroscientist is shaking out her sleeping bag while mumbling something about living in the West Indies for eight years and how could she not have realized this would happen. How could she, indeed?

This is where plan B kicked in: where to sleep? A ha! Karen says the back row of seats in the SUV can be adjusted to create a flatfish bed wherein we could sleep and remain dry. So, I hopped up in the back of the truck to assist. While climbing in, Karen shrieked and a tray of thawed shrimp went flying into the night, while a certain amount of shrimp-laced water and cocktail sauce oozed onto the floorboards. Oh great, now we have to sleep in shrimp juice. In the chaos, Zeke made quite an impressive go for a fallen shrimp, given that he was arthritic and could barely lift a leg. Kimmy scooped him up in the nick of time, and before he recovered from the vertigo, placed him in the passenger seat while we cleaned up the fucking shrimp. Now, we had thawed, sand-covered shrimp cocktail. Delicious.

We then realized that while sleeping in the back of Karen's SUV was perfectly doable, it was going to get pretty hot in that cabin after a short time. It was early October, but that means it's still 80 degrees and humid as all get out on the Gulf Coast. Especially mere yards from the water. But, 'lo! We had purchased THE TARP. If we could figure out a way to use it as a "shield" hanging off the raised back of the truck, we could keep the sea mist out and let an air current in. Brilliant!

So, we rigged it up with some bungee tie downs, using the chairs as anchors to keep the tarp at an angle that would allow air in. It was a beautiful thing. Once we had the situation under control, we sat in our respective anchors and finished out our night, and the last of the beer. We climbed into "bed" and promptly passed out among the fumes of shellfish and horseradish.

Around dawn, I awoke to the sounds of a panicked Neuroscientist. Cradled in her arms, swaddled in a towel, is Zeke, tongue lolling to one side, eyes closed. She says, "something is wrong with him, I don't know what…. I woke up and he wasn't here, I found him under the truck, looking like this…I think we should head back home…" Karen is rubbing her eyes as Zeke is shoved into my arms and Kimmy says she is going to try to call Zeke's vet and see if they can help her figure out what's wrong. Karen takes one look at Zeke and starts packing up. We can tell this is very bad. Zeke is old, yes, but at the moment, he looked as if he is on death's door. He's barely responsive and his breathing is shallow. I can hear Kimmy asking someone questions on the phone. Then, as I'm climbing into the passenger seat with Zeke, I hear Kimmy's voice, a combination of comprehension and disbelief: "THE SHRIMP! THE FUCKING SHRIMP!"

At some point in the night, the wind had knocked over one of our chair "anchors"… which wasn't really an issue, except that someone had left the tray lid of thawed, sandy shrimp on that chair… so when it toppled, the shrimp ended up well within reach of Zeke's mouth. There was no way of knowing how many he ate, or how long ago he ate them. What we did know was that Zeke was in no shape to explain himself, and we needed to get him to the clinic fast. We packed up the truck in a fury, haphazardly tossing everything and anything into the back end. We slammed the doors, buckled in, and hightailed it off the beach and back to the freeway… Karen sped the whole way to the vet.

When we rolled into the animal hospital, Kimmy raced into the office with Zeke in her arms. The receptionist took one look at Zeke, peered over her reading glasses, and asked, "What happened?"

The three of us glanced at each other, then answered in unison, "The fucking shrimp."

*some names have been changed in the interest of privacy.