A few weeks ago, the fella and I traversed to the beach for a quick getaway. I don't work on Fridays, and the fella is a hardcore surfer, so he's been itching to get down to the waves for ages. We were finally able to fit in a trip, and Lord only knows what a series of misadventures it was.
Our plan was to camp at the state campgrounds in Wilmington on Thursday night, spend Friday at the beach and then drive home late Friday. We left Charlotte about 5:30, made a stop at the gas station and grocery store for some vittles (protein bars, fruit, water, Diet Dr. Pepper, and wine... natch). Thanks to a small construction detour we pulled into the campsite at 10:04. To find that the gates seal tightly shut at 10:00.
Undeterred we found a beach access and decided to wheel the fella's mighty Dodge Caliber directly onto the sand. With bated breath we inched across the beach until we found the perfect plot of sand. We set about setting up his tent only to discover that the tent he had lent a church student trip was not the one he'd received back. In its stead we found a structure capable of housing the Duggars, Gosselins and von Trapps at the same time comfortably. As we struggled to erect this monstrosity it was decided that the wine needed to be opened. Quickly. So we did. And proceeded to drink straight from the bottle. Cause, you know, we be classy.
As we secured the final pole, sweet fella went to grab the lantern, so we could properly decorate the interior of our beach mansion. But, oh, the lantern was broken. We scooted the tent directly in front of the fella's car and took turns resetting the headlights every 6 minutes. Beautiful. We took a short respite to dip our feet in the sand and continued slugging our vino.
When we got back to our homestead we realized that we didn't have the rain shield on properly, but after our grape beverage and other mishaps, we decided it didn't really matter because it surely wouldn't rain, and to sleep we went. Me on my air mattress, the polite fella on his mat. It rained. All night.
Nothing could squelch my little fella's excitement to surf, though, and he was up with the dawn to hit the waves. He briefly walked me through how to surf, and I happily paddled around on the board and rode a couple of waves into shore (while lying on the board... standing? Notsomuch). The fella's joy was dampened by a lack of rideable waves, however, so we took a snack break. Not long after we began session two, and the surf began picking up considerably, my beach bum boy had an accident with his board, nearly severing his bicep and leaving him swollen, bruised and in immense pain.
Bless his heart, he made his way to our tent and lay there moaning (and he's not a weenie boy when it comes to pain... well, not much of one anyway) - more from disappointment than pain, methinks. He decided he was done for the day, and a mere 13 hours after our arrival I began closing up shop while trying to pepper my conversation with as much surfer lingo as I could think of to cheer him.
Although, a seeming "wipeout," there's no one "gnarlier" I'd rather "hang ten" with.