Vacation Horror Story
When I was younger, my family ventured down the California coast. We made it to San Francisco with little altercation, and for the most part, things seemed to be going well. The first half of the vacation was hardly memorable, presumably because we had enjoyed it, but the second portion is a week that stands in infamy.
On our way back, we decided to ogle the rich people in Carmel California. At first this seemed like a good idea. Visiting Saks 5th Avenue and asking to purchase a single sock at a reduced cost of only twenty dollars, opposed to the lofty price of forty dollars for the traditional ‘pair’ was indeed fun, but I desired more. During our short-lived stay there, I broke off from the pack and decided to visit the public beach. Up until this point, I had never had any reason to fear either public property, or water. That would soon change.
I’m by no means fit to be alone in any large body of water, nor am I capable of surviving any long-term exposure to the sun. In addition to all this, I’m blind. I see just fine with my glasses, but my prescription rivals that of the late Ray Charles. Naturally one as pale as myself would avoid the sun by swimming, and would avoid the dangers of not being able to find shore by wearing his glasses. This proved to be a fatal mistake. As I was leaving the water to return to my hotel, I was struck by a wave. This wave was of a magnitude never experienced by nerd-kind before. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. At least, I think. After all, I never really did see it so I wouldn’t know. This wave knocked me down, rolling me over and over before finally laying me to rest on that hot sandy beach and taking my beloved glasses.
For the next hour, I combed the beach blindly, as the sun slowly beat down on my ever-reddening back. Eventually, I enlisted the help of several good Samaritans. They then scoffed at my requests and laughed at my misfortune. I then decided to make the long trek back to the hotel. Unfortunately, I could neither remember the name of the hotel, nor the name of the street it was on. For the next four hours, I wandered blindly. I would have intended a pun there, but it was my reality. I began to question people about the whereabouts of my hotel, but I was having trouble with this, on account of my deteriorating appearance. Keep in mind I’d just narrowly survived an altercation with a tsunami, crawled on my hands and knees through the sand, and stood in exposure to the hot California sun in excess of five hours. I’m not sure what the undead look like, but I could easily have been mistaken for a member of their kind.
The only accurate description of my hotel that I could give was that it was like a synthesis of the Bates Motel, and the Hotel California. Oddly enough, I did find someone who was both willing to talk to me, and recognized the hotel from the description, but only because I’d been wandering back and forth in front of it without ever noticing. This was the single most pitiful moment of my life.
The next day, we decided to visit the redwoods. I’d never seen such gianormous trees, and to this day still haven’t seen them. All I can say is that they provided plenty of shade to keep the ground soft and moist. Which was nice because their roots caused me to take multiple trips to that gentle loam. For some reason, that’s all I remember about that day except for our hotel.
I’m fairly certain we had reservations, but I wasn’t in charge of such sillyness, so I can’t be sure. But when we got to our hotel, they informed us that they were full. This was the general consensus at each and every subsequent motel that we tried. We called every place within a 150-mile radius, and there were no rooms. Later we learned that this was due, largely in part, to an international yodeler’s convention. That night, bleeding, muddy, blind and bruised, we slept in the car.
Soon after, we reached our final destination of Hood River Oregon. A slightly colder, more relaxing location, I was finally able to heal a little. After a day of relaxing, listening to the only thing that came in: right wing AM talk radio, I decided to venture out into the world. This had never really worked out for me before, so I’m not sure what I was thinking, but I eventually came to a kite shop. Hood River is known for their excessive wind, partially on account of that AM talk radio show host, partially on account of the quantum-suckage of the location in general. For this reason, I decided to purchase a kite.
The kite I purchased was humble, but presumably appealing in an aesthetic manner. To this day, I have never really seen it. When I got back to the hotel, which was conveniently situated adjacent to a public beach, I assembled my humble kite by feel. I then carefully approached the windy beach and began the greatest Zen meditation of all: flying a kite.
The next series of events is difficult for me to understand. Somehow, I think, my kite collided with another kite. Both kites fell to the sand, and the owner of the alien kite was far less than pleased. From the accounts of numerous bystanders, he walked over to my kite, stomped it into the sand and tore it to pieces. He then approached me to give me flying advice. Though his shadowy appearance seemed to mimic that of the redwoods I had not seen only three days prior, he had some good words of wisdom for me. Words that were so profoundly wise, I wouldn’t dare repeat them in the presence of children.
The next day, we went home. I have since developed an irrational fear of public beaches.
