…but still we persisted.
Listen, friends and neighbors.
The problem with reserving Florida State Park camp sites several months in advance is that you have no idea what the weather is going to be like when the Big Day finally arrives.
That is especially true when the Big Day arrives in January.
(The problem with not reserving several months in advance is that you don’t get any camp sites at all.)
But, listen, my friends and I have long enjoyed Florida winter camping and we fancy ourselves made of sterner stuff. We few. He hardy. We band of…whatevers.
The point is that when we arrived at Tomoka State Park on Monday it was already raining and the wind was beginning to kick up.
And we knew that a winter storm of great ferocity was making its way across the south toward our flat little peninsula.
A winter storm of such might that it spawned tornadoes that tossed Panama City beach houses around like so many matchboxes.
And yet we persisted. In our soggy little tents. Huddled together under our frail canopy shelter.
But no fools we.
On Tuesday evening, as the worst of the storm approached, we high-tailed it to the nearby, notorious River Grill, on the banks of the placid Tomoka River.
There to cower. Under the most primitive conditions imaginable. While the wind howled and the rain fell and the storm raged.
Our waitress told us we smelled of smoke. But we did not take offense. Because we were refugees from the tempest and could only hope that she didn’t have the heart to cast us out into the elements for, um, reeking.
By and by the winds eased. And although the rain fell still, we made our way back to camp. There to begin the arduous but life-sustaining task of starting a fire on muddy ground indeed.
It was touch and go, friends and neighbors.
Armed with fat wood and a miniature flame thrower-like device that was the only thing standing between our tiny band of pathetic humans and the cold, unforgiving elements.
But still we persisted.
Until, finally.
Fire! We! Had! Created! Fire!
The next morning dawned frigid and clear. And we all huddled in the smoky remains of our once life-saving furnace like…like…like…
…like campers in the mist.
Unable to breath or even talk in the smoke, we all naturally whipped out our cell phones, attempting to make contact with the outside world.
If only to determine who else out there survived the Worst Night In The World.
Having so survived, we made the pilgrimage to the north end of our wet little state park peninsula.
There to offer a sacrifice in gratitude to the mythical diety Chief Tomokie for sparing our miserable hides.
And because still we persisted, Tomokie smiled upon us.
FreeGNV 