How Many More Times?


We are tent campers. If you camp, you already understand that there are different types of campers. There are cabin campers, a’la KOA. There are RV campers, a’la they can afford it. There are even yurt campers a’la “Duuuuude”. But we do the tent thing. It’s how we started when we were as poor as dirt, and...

I’m sitting here at Patrick’s Point this Labor Day Weekend in the Abalone loop space #35. Nice little fire going. Kettle on the cook stove for coffee. Tent to my left. Tent to my right. Love all around.

So I’m old now. Fifty. And this is and has always been difficult: get all the stuff, prepare and load everything up, drive three hours, set up the tents and the campground, get the fire going, sleep on something that is not my bed, break down, drive three hours, clean and put everything way, etc.

But behind all of that activity, all the prep and clean up, all the monkey business, there is now a certain panicky mourning happening. I’m starting to wonder how many more times we get to do this. How many more times I get to do this. 

Math happens. I’m fifty. Did I mention I was fifty? If I live to be seventy-five, and we go camping once a year, that’s only 25 more times. That’s not that much. At an average of two days a pop that’s only 50 more days in this coastal paradise. Less than two months. Seven weeks!

Mortality sucks. 

So the challenge is to get out of my head and get into Billy Ocean’s car... I mean get into the moment. How do I do that? How to I quell the panic and fear of death sneaking up on me, moving in like the early morning coastal fog to obscure the beauty that surrounds?

No idea.

But the work to get here seems pretty small all of a sudden. Pretty easy. A breeze actually. 


I’m going to go look at the beach. 

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