Kids on the coast

The morning after that fatal bottle of wine, I dumped my sorry excuse for a body in front of my inbox to find new messages from my new-found camping buddy. Clicking on the link I found the Blue Dolphin Resort, Yamba, seemed really nice. Perusing the accommodation section I eyed the luxury riverside villas, “perfect”, I thought to myself! I could just see myself sunning on the balcony, sipping champagne and waving to the kids splashing on the river bank below. Relieved, I reached for my phone and sent her a text. “Looks great, can’t wait! Which type of accommodation should I book?”

Bright and breezy as ever, she casually replied, “unpowered site for tents”. Suddenly realising the true consequences of my binge drinking, the reality sank in and I watched my champagne glass fall off the balcony of that luxury villa and float off down the river to oblivion!

“C’mon Lou! You’ll be fine, you know you will.” I told myself reassuringly. The reality was (‘though I may have morphed into ‘resort girl’ over the last 10 years), I spent many a good holiday camping, in my youth. My father was a scout leader and I was the ‘primrose’ patrol leader at Girl Guides, so I felt sure there must be a wealth of camping knowledge and survival skills hidden somewhere underneath my facade of Cue corporate wear.

Of course my friends didn’t help the matter! “You, camping”, they scoffed “are you joking?” “Where will you plug in your straighteners and what about your stilettos?” “Very funny” I retorted, slightly annoyed by their lack of confidence in my ability to rough it! “I might have a pair of thongs to match every sundress I own, but I’ll have you know, my father was a scout leader, I’m not all shoes and handbags you know!”

Staunchly defiant and determined to prove to the world that I could leave Nine West behind me, I gave camping my best shot. The weather was glorious, so I swam with the kids, forgot about my hair, ignored my mascara strewn panda eyes, yabbied, face painted, rode scooters, consumed endless sausages, slept on the floor (I hated the air beds) allowed the sand flies their pound of flesh and even managed to rescue a bottle or twelve of that champagne I told you about from floating down the river. It was heaven! By day four I was convinced I had this camping thing down pat, I felt proud that I had risen to the occasion and placed my vanity on the shelf. But then, that night, the storm came.

We had just settled into our first glass of champers for the day when it hit! With the first gust of wind our tarp blew loose scattering the contents of our pantry shelf into the mud and picking up anything else not tied down. Terrified we clung to the tarp for dear life, screaming as the wild wind tried to carry us off like virgin parachutists.

Above the noise of the storm we could hear our poor children screaming in the tent, but much worse was the sound of our neighbours’ laughter as they enjoyed the spectacle from their luxury riverside villas! And then came my undoing, perhaps it was fate or perhaps those camping god’s have a very sick sense of humour, but from my friend’s iPod came the haunting tones of Celine Dion’s, Theme from Titanic! The irony was all too much for my dry sense of humour and as uncontrollable laughter set in, not even six months of pilates and a ‘Tena Lady’ could prevent my vanity or my dignity from running down my inside leg!