The Kung-fu Tent.
I had left North Carolina two days earlier with just over a thousand dollars in ones, fives, and tens that I'd earned waiting tables. This was just after my first traumatic experience teaching high school. And, I suppose, this was one of my first acts of rebellion. I had finished college. I had made an attempt at doing the responsible adult thing. But I'd always had this desire to throw caution to the wind and strike out on my own.
The decision to leave North Carolina, alone, with few belongings and little money, had been a spurious one. I had no idea where I was going. I figured that I'd know when I got there or when I ran out of money. I had no plans. No intentions. Just my little black Tracker and a tent that my friend Sean had given to me. It was a wonderful feeling. Exhilarating.
I remember that one song that played over and over on the radio that summer. The lines that stick out in my mind went: They made up their minds/ and they started packing/ they left before the sun came up that day/ an exit to eternal summer slacking/ but where were they going without ever knowing the way. I'm not sure who sang it, but I would turn the volume up whenever it came on.
After a wild visit with my friend Laura in Atlanta, I headed down to Florida. I'd always wanted to see Savannah, and it wasn't far off course. I had almost decided to stay in a b&b, but I was intrigued when I saw a sign for Skidaway Island State Park. Camping would be cheaper, and I'd never spent the night in a tent alone. I'd never even pitched a tent.
So I stocked up my cooler with food at a local grocery store, and I picked out a nice little primitive lot in the swampy park. The sun was already beginning to sink when I pulled the neatly packed tent from the back of the car and removed it from its navy sack. I searched amongst the folds for instructions, but there were none. Oh well. I knew what a tent was supposed to look like. Triangular, right?
I set about the task, pulling out collapsible rods and unfolding the mess of nylon and tarp that formed the bulk of the tent. When the contents of the bag were all spread out before me, I examined the two rods and the slots along what I determined was the roof of the structure, smiling with self-assurance. It certainly looked easy enough. And people had been doing this for cenuries. How hard could it be?
Just extend the rod, uncollapse it, I guess, slide this rod up through here, like so, and then this one here, and voila! Hunh. Why on earth would the rods stick out so much further than the base of the tent. OK. Well, I guess because you put the end of this rod here like this and the the other end - whappow! The opposite end of the rod snapped up and popped me between the eyes. That's weird. OK. Let's try this other rod. Maybe it'll be more cooperative. Whapow! Right in the temple! I step into the middle of the tent, wrestling with the rods, forcing them this way and that, tangling my feet in the mesh and nylon, slipping on the tarp. Insert explitives here. The sun sets. I hear children screaming at a nearby site. I turn the headlights on and sit on a bench, staring at the pile of tent. I check the clock in the car. I've been battling this tent for over an hour, and it's winning. I go at it again, unsnapping the middle joints of the rods, folding one over the other. Wait. Yes. That looks right. Kind of a pyramid. I tie a piece of string around the disjointed rods and climb into the tent. I lie there under the center, in a narrow, very narrow, space. On either side of me the tent walls are collapsed and claustrophic. This can't be right. I lie there longer. Then I remember having once seen a dome shaped tent, and it occurs to me that this may be that sort of new-fangled contraption. A dome. I could sleep this way. But the thought of being out-smarted by inanimate camping gear was too much. I climbed back out of the cramped space, heaved a breath that let the tent know that I meant business. That I wasn't the kind of girl who settled for close enough. That I would not back down. We struggled more. I swore. I sweated. I ached, pushing those rods deep into the wet ground so that they would be out of commission. And, finally, the tent submitted and popped up into its proper shape. Large and airy and full of dirt and mosquitos.
It's a silly story, I know. But it's still one of the proudest moments of my life. I can remember the satisfaction of having done something that I'd never done, of taking care of myself, of being fearless and competent.
The decision to leave North Carolina, alone, with few belongings and little money, had been a spurious one. I had no idea where I was going. I figured that I'd know when I got there or when I ran out of money. I had no plans. No intentions. Just my little black Tracker and a tent that my friend Sean had given to me. It was a wonderful feeling. Exhilarating.
I remember that one song that played over and over on the radio that summer. The lines that stick out in my mind went: They made up their minds/ and they started packing/ they left before the sun came up that day/ an exit to eternal summer slacking/ but where were they going without ever knowing the way. I'm not sure who sang it, but I would turn the volume up whenever it came on.
After a wild visit with my friend Laura in Atlanta, I headed down to Florida. I'd always wanted to see Savannah, and it wasn't far off course. I had almost decided to stay in a b&b, but I was intrigued when I saw a sign for Skidaway Island State Park. Camping would be cheaper, and I'd never spent the night in a tent alone. I'd never even pitched a tent.
So I stocked up my cooler with food at a local grocery store, and I picked out a nice little primitive lot in the swampy park. The sun was already beginning to sink when I pulled the neatly packed tent from the back of the car and removed it from its navy sack. I searched amongst the folds for instructions, but there were none. Oh well. I knew what a tent was supposed to look like. Triangular, right?
I set about the task, pulling out collapsible rods and unfolding the mess of nylon and tarp that formed the bulk of the tent. When the contents of the bag were all spread out before me, I examined the two rods and the slots along what I determined was the roof of the structure, smiling with self-assurance. It certainly looked easy enough. And people had been doing this for cenuries. How hard could it be?
Just extend the rod, uncollapse it, I guess, slide this rod up through here, like so, and then this one here, and voila! Hunh. Why on earth would the rods stick out so much further than the base of the tent. OK. Well, I guess because you put the end of this rod here like this and the the other end - whappow! The opposite end of the rod snapped up and popped me between the eyes. That's weird. OK. Let's try this other rod. Maybe it'll be more cooperative. Whapow! Right in the temple! I step into the middle of the tent, wrestling with the rods, forcing them this way and that, tangling my feet in the mesh and nylon, slipping on the tarp. Insert explitives here. The sun sets. I hear children screaming at a nearby site. I turn the headlights on and sit on a bench, staring at the pile of tent. I check the clock in the car. I've been battling this tent for over an hour, and it's winning. I go at it again, unsnapping the middle joints of the rods, folding one over the other. Wait. Yes. That looks right. Kind of a pyramid. I tie a piece of string around the disjointed rods and climb into the tent. I lie there under the center, in a narrow, very narrow, space. On either side of me the tent walls are collapsed and claustrophic. This can't be right. I lie there longer. Then I remember having once seen a dome shaped tent, and it occurs to me that this may be that sort of new-fangled contraption. A dome. I could sleep this way. But the thought of being out-smarted by inanimate camping gear was too much. I climbed back out of the cramped space, heaved a breath that let the tent know that I meant business. That I wasn't the kind of girl who settled for close enough. That I would not back down. We struggled more. I swore. I sweated. I ached, pushing those rods deep into the wet ground so that they would be out of commission. And, finally, the tent submitted and popped up into its proper shape. Large and airy and full of dirt and mosquitos.
It's a silly story, I know. But it's still one of the proudest moments of my life. I can remember the satisfaction of having done something that I'd never done, of taking care of myself, of being fearless and competent.
posted by Autumn at 11:50 AM
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