One of my favorite times of year is fast approaching, and I am feeling the customary combination of giddy anticipation and frazzled nerves. No, I’m not talking about spring break – that ship sailed long ago (and my do I miss those days). Sometime between February and April every year, my entire family goes camping at the same location we’ve been going to since long before I was born. My grandparents took my dad and aunt and uncles when they were still toe-headed kids with scraped knees, and my initiation took place some time around my first birthday. Ever since, we have gravitated back to this quiet place at the edge of the world year after year with very few exceptions.


I have mentioned before that I am of a tribe that enjoys camping, but this place feels more like home than an expedition into the wild. My grandfather, a gregarious man who seems to make friends wherever he goes, befriended the owners of the campsite, the rangers, the “regulars” who camp out for weeks, sometimes months, on end, and the rest of the family sort of inherited these acquaintances. These familiar faces have appeared with regularity as repeat characters in my life. Seeing them equals comfort. Stability. A slower way of life.

Over the years we have steeped this camping trip in traditions which may fluctuate from year to year, but they always reappear with varying degrees of regularity. Some years we are up there during my sister’s birthday, and those years feature cheese pie with candles stuck in the delectable frothiness. Many years we have been up there for Easter, celebrating in surely one of the most heavenly places on earth. These years include egg-dying (which for some reason we never outgrew), Bunny Cake (translation: strawberry shortcake transformed into an edible pastoral scene with dyed green coconut flakes, peeps and tiny chocolate eggs stuck on the whipped top – yum) and a re-reading of the resurrection story. Some years it rains, and we coop up like restless hens in my parent’s trailer, whiling away hours at Rummikub and Clue.

Every year predominantly features relaxation, though, no matter the weather. Board games, crossword puzzles, magazines, guitar playing, sketching – this seems to be the one place in the world where it is okay to not be busy, to cast obligation aside and just be. We talk over coffee until mid-morning. There is no agenda, unless the plan is a long walk on the beach, which must be scheduled according to low tide. My father goes fishing, and when we were younger we would go too. I will never forget my first foray with the surf pole, which ended with me pulling in ten fish, one right after the other. That divine occurrence has never repeated itself.

The best part of this trip for me though is the decadence of hours devoted to reading. Reading! I unleash the hollow of my soul that I keep under lock and key the rest of the year, the part that loves to read for hours and hours, interrupted only by food and bathroom breaks. If there is a heaven specifically tailored for me, this is how it would look.

While that may be my favorite thing to do on a more selfish level, one of the most meaningful traditions we established are the nights spent around the campfire. These are the evenings where I absorbed the majority of my family history – the story of my grandparents and the kids trapped in the trailer by an unusually social grizzly bear; the times my grandparents traveled the Mississippi River on the Delta Queen; the epic fights between my father and his siblings, which always seeming to end with my father getting spanked on some highway in front of God and the rest of the world. Obnoxious camp songs have been passed down to us around these fires, and we hold these songs about hungry goats and animal infestations in trust for our children as well (don’t ask – I didn’t make up the songs). We gaze at the stars that are invisible to us the rest of the year, finding the ancient images in the constellations.

Despite the sacredness of this space we visit every year, something unforeseeable has been gradually happening. Over the past fifteen years or so, during the advent and flourishing of the E-Boom, the camp and its culture has been changing. They expanded their campsite area. They advertise. Exposure in Sunset Magazine, surf folklore and overpopulation has changed this sleepy little community into an entirely new beast, crowded and redolent with human noises where once the ocean lulled us to sleep. People fight over oceanfront campsites like harried stockbrokers on the exchange. I don’t know how many years we have left here before it becomes like Yosemite: overrun and too full.

For now, though, we keep returning, enjoying it while it lasts.

So my books are in my bag. I’m leaving my cell phone and computer at home. I’m going off the grid for the next few days. I can’t wait.

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Camping on the Beach — 14 Comments

  1. That sounds lovely!

    I remember those camping trips with my family; the crackle of the campfire, the smoke on your clothes, the salt in your hair and the peace of deep breathing. Space and time to do nothing and revel in it. Not having to rush off to do something “worthwhile”.

    Have a sweet trip.

  2. What a lovely tradition! Enjoy your time…we will all be here when you get back. Just returned from vacation myself and slowly getting back into the groove.

  3. My family just escaped to the coast for the day, and for the first time in years, it was beautiful. No gale force winds, sudden rainstorms, or small tsunamis to force us off the sand after twenty minutes.

    I even read 40 pages of Richard Ford’s Canada. I never get to read anywhere, except in my bed at 11:43 pm when everyone else is asleep, so reading when actual light exists was a nice novelty.

    I’m sorry your little paradise has been discovered. I’ve experienced this a number of times. To bad squatter’s rights don’t exist for campsites.

    • I know. It’s truly the only time I’ve ever wanted to say, “But I was here first!”
      Glad you got in a little R&R. I know that parents have little time for books. While I was reading on the beach, my sister told me to enjoy it while I can; she can never sit down long enough to focus on a book.

  4. I’m incredibly jealous! Both that you are camping right now, and that you have a family tradition of camping each year. I’m sad to hear that your campground is becoming overrun. Enjoy the years you have left, and maybe venture out one of the days in search of a new hidden campground. 😉

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