Something Scary

Lightning flashes and thunder booms in the distance as we pull into our campsite in inland Flordia. The park where we have chosen to spend the night is beautiful. It features a freshwater spring that bubbles up from an underground river into a limestone pool. Perfect for cooling off after a long drive. Finn, Jonah, Thistle, Oakley and I all tumble out of the car excited to stretch our legs and explore this new fascinating natural wonder.

Overhead it is still sunny. Immediately, Finn and Jonah grab a large bucket and begin trying to collect the little green Anole lizards that scurry across the crunchy live oak leaves covering the ground. They have been collecting them everywhere we go. Sometimes they race them, sometimes they have contests to see who can catch more, and sometimes they let the lizards bite their earlobes. The lizard’s tiny toothless mouths clamp on tightly and look like beautiful jade earrings.

Thistle is on tent detail with me. She knows the drill and even at just seven years old, she can expertly set up our tent in no time at all. Together we lay it out on the ground and begin hammering in the stakes, all the while keeping an eye on Oakley, who at four, is entertaining himself by munching on a box of Honey Nut Cheerios. We have been camping and driving through the south for a month on a homeschooling expedition. We have spent time in the Great Smokey National Forest, in Alabama at the “Riveria of the South” and throughout the panhandle of Florida. Before we left home the kids planned the itinerary, the food and organized chore charts for our adventure, all in the name of homeschooling lessons. Now a month in, we are working as a well-oiled machine.

Except for one problem. There has been a string of violent thunderstorms that had been chasing us across the South. Every day, I call home to get weather forecasts from Twain (this was in the days before iPhones), and he helplessly reports again and again that we are going to get slammed by yet another horrendous weather system. Just about every night we have had to camp in torrents of rain that have soaked us through. A few nights ago we had literally been floating on our air mattresses in our tent as three inches of puddle formed below. I am trying to keep a good attitude, but I am tired, and now with the lightning and booming thunder in the distance, I know we are in for it again.

When Thistle and I finish setting up the tent we grab our suits and head for the spring to try to get a swim in before the approaching storm. The air is thick and humid, and the water in the spring is a constant 72 degrees and tropically clear (like all the springs throughout central Florida). It feels incredible after a day of driving in a cramped car full of wiggly kids. The spring is full of other swimming campers. I bob about with Oakley while Finn, Jonah, and Thistle entertain themselves, diving to the bottom with a snorkel mask, bringing up cool rocks. I take solace in the fact that tonight, even if it is a bit wet, we will have the company of other campers so the forecast can’t be too bad.

However, soon I notice that other swimmers are beginning to clear out. The sky is darkening and, as I look around, I find that the numbers of would-be campers have dwindled considerably. This makes me a little anxious. I call the kids back to the campsite where we rustle up a quick dinner of spaghetti just as the first fat raindrops begin to fall. While we inhale our spaghetti we watch one family after another roll up their tents and drive away, and by the time we finish cleaning up, I realize with a sickening feeling that we are all alone. Except for one lone monster pick-up truck.

The rain forces us into our tent and thunder and lightning fills the air. I try to ease the building tension the storm brings by reading out loud to everybody, but we are all distracted by the increasingly violent weather. Then we hear a revving engine. At first, I think that it is just that last remaining pick-up truck leaving, but then I realize that it isn’t leaving. In fact, it begins to do donuts around the campsite, skidding through the mud and boon-dogging its way through the woods. It is getting darker and darker. My headlamp is now providing the only light, making our tent glow, perhaps drawing attention that I don’t want.

I announce that we should all go to sleep and hopefully, when we wake up, it will be a beautiful day again filled with swimming and catching lizards. I turn out my headlamp. Everyone tries to settle in their bags, but between the thunder, and the sound of the revving truck engine, we are all a bit tense. The truck comes closer and its headlights begin lighting up our tent, again and again, making visible the fear on all our faces. It seems to be circling us like a shark. Finn is old enough, at 12, to be truly worried. He knows that his mama can’t protect him from everything. “What are they doing out there?” he asks nervously.

“Just goofing off ” I reply as the truck seems to circle us for the 20th time. “Go to sleep.” I am trying to be reassuring, but the kids can feel my anxiety like static in the air. Suddenly the truck stops, right next to the tent. The headlights illuminate everybody for an instant and then turn off.

“Mom?” questions Jonah.

“Sshhh” I lie completely still. I am willing them to leave us and our tent alone. I hear nothing. It is pitch black in the tent the thunder booms overhead. I hold my tiny flip phone on my chest. I press 911. My finger is on the dial button. Should I push it? Still nothing. What are they doing out there? Whose idea was this anyway? I have no defense. My children lie beside me. Thankfully, Oakley is asleep, but everyone else is taut with fear.

“I am just going to sneak out there and see what they are doing.” I whisper to Finn. He is the closest thing to a co-leader that I have.

“What?” he silently hisses. “That is what you don’t do! That is what they do in movies, and you are not doing that!” He grabs my arm.

“Okay, okay. I won’t I promise.” We lie there, hearts thumping, sweating, skin prickling for what seems like hours. The storm passes. Still, the truck doesn’t move. Finally, we drift off to sleep with my phone still open and on my chest and my finger on the dial button

In the morning I come into a foggy consciousness rather than really wake up. My head is aching. Rain is pouring down. The tent is soaked through as well as our sleeping bags. I unzip the tent and peer out. The campsite is deserted and the truck is gone. I send Thistle and Oaks to sit in the car and Jonah, Finn, and I quickly load the sleeping bags and tent into the trunk of the car without even stuffing the soggy mess. The gear is heavy and sodden. Nobody speaks. We get in the car and drive off just as fast as we can. “The people in the truck were probably just having a make-out session!” I joke to Finn. That kind of humor is usually right up his alley. He blinks slowly at me and leans his head against the car door. He isn’t ready to laugh yet.

The first sign of civilization we pass is the state penitentiary. A towering 12-foot tall chain link covered with rolls of barbed wire encircle the prison. It is complete with watchtowers and armed guards and looks like a scene from the jail break sequence in O Brother, Where Out Thou? Who knew? Jonah, Finn, and Thistle groan.

At the first town we get to, I try to win them over with breakfast in a real restaurant while we dry all of our belongings in a laundromat. It sort of works. Safe, with another story to tell, we travel on wondering what adventures Georgia will hold for us next.

Now 11 years later they seem to have forgiven me, and that five-week camping expedition has become one of the many things that created a bond and identity for our children. Just the other day when I asked Jonah, who is now 21, what I should write about, he said, “Write more Forced Family Fun Adventures. I think those are what make our family interesting.” Maybe that isn’t forgiveness, but if I am not mistaken, I do hear a little bit of pride.

This bike trip is sure to have some scary times. I hope luck and the inherent goodness of people are on our side.