“Really?” newly 13-year-old son asked.
Why not?
“Are you nuts?” beautiful wife asked as the new teen rushed to call his friends.
What could go wrong? I replied, confident that all my Boy Scout training was training enough.
Granted, it had been a few years since my son and I had gone camping, what with business and all …
It is a ritual in our little family to make up “wish lists” for annual celebrations. In this case, the celebration was our children turning into teenagers.
As I ran down the amusing items on my son’s list, I saw that eight years of public education had not stifled his creativity. While I appreciated his latest passion (golf), a weekender at St. Andrews was pushing the envelope, I (ha ha ha) informed him. As for the trip to Australia’s Gold Coast for the Quicksilver Air Show (that is, surfing, another passion) Championships (“It’s not ‘til November, Dad, so we’ve got time to save up!”), I suggested (ha ha ha) the jet lag wouldn’t be worth the trouble. As for the (ha ha ha) SNAKE?!?!
“I like snakes,” my son mumbled (a newly developed talent).
Since when do you like SNAKES? I asked, probably a bit too loudly.
“You don’t have to yell, Dad. I take care of our snake at school. It’s a pretty big snake.”
You’ll (ha ha ha) have to take that up with your (ha ha ha) mother.
Finally, at the bottom of his list was “camping.” With six 13-year-old boys.
“What? Passport’s expired, mate?” my bride (snicker, snicker) asked as she shelved a book titled, “Australia on $400 (AUD) a Day.”
I like to live on the edge.
When informed of my decision, the most common responses from the parents of these six 13-year-old boys were, “St. Andrews is off then (ha ha ha)?” followed by,
1. “What a great idea!” (Translation: “No 13-year-old boy in the house for an entire weekend? Think of the money we’ll save on groceries alone!” ) and,
2. “Gee, I wish I could go with you, but I promised myself this weekend I’d finally get my toothpick collection in order.” (Translation: “Are you nuts?!”)
Which is what my 13-year-old daughter also said when she heard of our plan, only in more eloquent manner: “DAD, YOU’RE NUTS!”
Daughter tended to be more practical when it came to her birthday “wish list.” Though she kept mumbling something about a cruise to the Bahamas, the first item was “Please repaint my bedroom.” Exceptional child.
I like to camp. Back in the 50s in the Midwest, camping was cool. It was what guys did. Sometimes we brought along a fishing pole. But mostly we just “camped out.”
What I found extraordinary was that my taciturn, mumbling new teenage son, liked it too.
***
“Yeah, but what do we DO?” asked one of the young men when we picked him up.
We camp, I said. Did you bring your toothbrush?
“Yeah, BUT WHAT DO WE DO?”
I learned most of the guys had never just gone “camping.” Not with just “the guys.” If they camped at all, it was a family affair, and usually a side show to the real adventure, like scaling Mount Everest, going to Disney World, or hunting or fishing or attending soccer tournaments. Hotel accommodations being what they are, especially cost-wise, I am a champion of this alternative lodging and wish I had the courage to suggest this option to my female family members. But knowing that the limit of both bride and daughter to “roughing it” consists of reading the National Geographic in our enclosed courtyard, I have paid the Holiday Inn tab.
We arrived at the campsite (a little island we had all to ourselves) with plenty of light. Our first lesson in “camping” was quite simple. “Read the directions.” Once all six understood the little piece of paper that came with our tents actually was the directions, our nylon accommodation went up in no time.
Because this was a birthday camping trip, I decided not to foist the cooking onto my son’s growing shoulders. I also did not want cold cereal, the only meal my son knows how to prepare, for dinner.
As I played Jeeves, the six teenagers WENT FOR A WALK! They had no spray paint, no portable CD players, no battery operated anythings. Just themselves. There were a few distant screams of merriment, some laughter, but mostly it was birds singing and an alligator in heat. (I made sure the tents were not too close to the water.)
As I prepared the London Broil…(Note: London Broil, my bride noted as she pre-prepared the entire evening’s victuals, takes up as much space as hamburger patties), the Caesar salad, French cut green beans with baby onions and sliced new potatoes fried in REAL butter, I realized there was no greater place to be, and hoped my son thought so too. (I knew my daughter thought it was the PERFECT place for us to be. She would be an only child for at least 24 hours!)
(Note: London Broil marinade recipe available upon request.)
An hour later my six young men returned as the sun set. They were dirty, sweaty, and hungry.
What did you guys do? I asked. They had no answer. I did. I knew they had “PLAYED.” Which is what you DO when you “camp.”
The night ended with Smores (remember graham crackers, chocolate bars and marshmallows), a video (This is the 21st Century!) unfinished, and deep, untroubled sleep.
Yes, there were flatulence jokes, tests (“I bet you can’t run around the island in your underwear!”), talk of girls (“You did not!” … “I did, too!”) and silliness. But they went to sleep before I did. As we were breaking camp the following morning (following a breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and juice), a lady hiker came by.
“Scouts?” she inquired of one of the young men.
“Nope,” he replied, “just campers.”
***
For reference, my daughter’s bedroom walls are Lantana lime with a cool spearmint green for the trim. The snake’s name (a Malagasy giant hognose) is Ms. Jackson. And hanging with six 13-year-old gentlemen for one pleasantly somnolent evening is not bad at all.
©Paul deVere, 2001