Camping
Even as a kid I appreciated being able to travel the world the way we did. I was so grateful and felt so blessed. Even with a couple of wretchedly wet camping experiences, I could still say this.
When we were camping on the beach at Nice, it was raining. It was one of the many times my dad had to get out in the rain and put the tent up. Karen, being pretty solid and strong, would help him.
My parents slept in the tent with Susan, all zipped in nicely, and Karen and I slept in the outer part under the over-hang, on cots. There was no floor, just the sides of the tent and the canopy. The rain was pouring in one side and flowing out the other. I was freezing. My mother says from her cozy sleeping bag, “Put your sox on!”. I replied, “I have my sox on.” She furthers, “Put on your sweater.” I answer, “I have on my sweater.” “Put on your coat.” “I have on my coat.” At which point she feels she’s done her motherly job and goes to sleep. I eventually slept myself, but I woke up, sleeping bag and all, in a puddle outside the tent. My mother had to get up at this point and fix me up.
When we were on the Italian Riviera, I almost drowned. We were again camping on the beach. I enthusiastically ran into the sea, straight into a big wave which made its way into my lungs. It gagged me and I can still remember the strong taste of salt.
