You Can't Make That Shit Up

Water poured over me, drenching my shirt and sweatpants.  I could feel it dripping off my hair and rolling down the back of my neck.  A few minutes later it stopped and I breathed out.  Maybe the worst is over, I thought. But it wasn't.

"Here is comes again!" Ken shouted. 

I braced myself for another round.  More water, as if someone had opened a fire hose and had pointed it  directly at us, poured into our tent.  I was standing in a puddle up to my ankles.

"This really sucks." I muttered under my breath. 

From behind me I could hear Emily (4) screaming and Beth (2) shrieking.  I pressed Ken's over sized pillow, our only defense against the onslaught, against the tent's air vents in a desperate attempt to block the gush.  But it was no use, the water rushed passed, like a raging river.  (A pillow against gallons of water?  It was the middle of the night and that was the first thing I grabbed, give me a break.)

This was the third year of our annual camping trip.  We had been planning for weeks.  Last year had been a blast.  A cool September evening.  A beautiful grassy spot to set up our tent.  A warm camp fire and the crisp smell of autumn in the air. Hot dogs and beans for dinner.  Smores for dessert.  A peaceful night under the stars listening to the crickets sing us to sleep.  It was safe.  It was easy.  It was the perfect family camping trip.  We couldn't wait to do it again. After all, what could possibly go wrong? 

As the date approached this year, I was apprehensive.  Our family had been fighting a nasty stomach bug for two weeks.  If we weren't all healthy by Friday, I would cancel the trip.

"Rule number one." I told the kids. "No one throws up in the tent."

Then there was the weather. I didn't mind rain.  After all, it was just water.  A little water never hurt anyone.  Right?

But the reports were for a 70% chance of thunderstorms.  The idea of sitting in the middle of an open field while lightening struck around our tent didn't sound tempting.  If the storms arrived as predicted we weren't going.  So said I. 

Fortunately, by Friday things were looking up.  By some miracle, the kids were all healthy.  So was Ken.  The puking in the tent factor was less than 30%.

And, even though the skies were overcast, the thunderstorms were not scheduled to arrive until well into the night.  The chance of being killed by a lightening bolt factor was less than 40%. 

"Let's do it." I said. And so, throwing caution to the wind, we piled our gear into the minivan and trekked out to the park. 

In all fairness, it's not like we would be roughing it.  My company owns a big park just outside of town.  It boasts several acres of rolling grass.  There's a lake, a mini golf course, volleyball and basketball courts, several playgrounds and lots of open space.  Each year the company sponsored a family camping event.  For a small fee (to cover the cost of dinner and breakfast) you could set up a tent, play in the park, and have a good time.  We called it "camping light." 

A few days before our trip, Ken and I discussed the best place to pitch the tent.  "How about up near the baseball fields?" I suggested.  "It's flat. There's a playground there for the kids.  And rest rooms nearby.  Plus, most people camp near the pavilion so we'll have a more private space." 

Ken agreed.  Big mistake. (Rule number one of camping. If everyone else is camping near the pavilion, there's probably a really good reason.)

Truth be told, we had a great time for most of the trip.  Our neighbor, Evan (8), joined us.  That meant Eric (7) would have a playmate and would be less inclined to torture his younger sisters.  

After setting camp we marched the kids to the pavilion for dinner.  Then we played miniature golf, licked smores off our fingers and climbed on the monkey bars at the playground.  It was nearly ten o'clock before we donned our jammies and tucked our sleeping bags around our necks.  Ahhh, another perfect night. 

But I was still nervous.  Would the storms arrive?  Or would they break up and pass by? Was that a flash of lightening I just saw or a car passing on the street? I pulled out my cell phone and checked the weather report.  No change.  Just a little rain. It's only water.  Right? 

A few hours later I heard rain pattering against the tent.  It was soft and soothing, like pebbles rolling down a hill.  I pulled out my phone again and checked the weather.  No thunderstorms.  Just regular rain.  I sighed.  We could handle rain.  After all, it's just water. Right? 

Than, a few minutes later I heard a new noise.  A noise that sounded a bit familiar. Water, yes. But it wasn't rain.

Pfffffffffffffttttttttt.

Ken bolted upright in his bed. So did I.  "What was that?" I said."  Ken paused before answering, as if he were afraid to utter the words.  "It's the sprinkler system."

We scrambled out of the tent.  About thirty yards away the automatic sprinklers were dousing the playground to our north.  "They set these things by area." Ken said. "When those shut off, another set will go on." 

We exchanged nervous glances as the sprinklers arced and sputtered.  These weren't normal sprinklers.  The easy, gentle arch that squirts backyards across the burbs.  These were industrial strength sprinklers.  Powerful enough to strip a coat of paint off a 72 Buick. 

Ken shook his head slowly.  "I never checked for sprinkler heads before setting up the tent.  For all I know, we're sitting right on top of one."  (Rule number two of camping.  Don't set up a tent without checking to see if you are on top of an active sprinkler head.)

Ken was close.  Our tent wasn't right on top of one.  But ten minutes later, we discovered that there was one right outside our front door.  (Rule number three of camping.  A sprinkler head outside your front door WILL be angled at the precise trajectory to allow the water to spray under your tent's rain flap and enter the tent through the air vents at the top.  Its inevitable.)

Pfffffffftttttttttt. 

The next fifteen minutes were a blur.  First there was Ken trying to throw his body across the jets to protect us. (At least that's the way he's telling it.) Then there was Evan jumping out of his cot as the water poured in. (I owe his parents about a thousand dollars for future therapy bills.) And Emily screaming.  And Beth crying.  And me trying to calm the litter by saying things like "It's ok, everything is under control.  We can handle this" (Really, did I say that?) And Eric.....well, Eric slept through most of it.

"Get the kids in the car before it comes around again." I shouted.  Ken pulled opened the car door and the kids, barefoot and dripping wet, pattered across the soaked grass and piled into the van.  Then as if it had been playing with us the whole time, the sprinkler head gave one last "Pft" and dropped back into the ground.

Sprinkler system 1.  Our Family 0.  Cell Phones -1.

By two o'clock we were on our way home.  The kids were shivering, but otherwise in good spirits as they chattered about our rude awakening.  Our wet gear had been tossed into the back of the car.  The tent had been left to the gods.

We carried the kids into the house and stripped them out of wet jammies.  Ken frowned at me.  Not wanting to make things worse, I tired to find a bright side.  Finally, I gave him a crooked smile.  "At least no one threw up." I said. (Rule number 4 of camping. There is no bright side.)

The next morning I told the story to my friend Rob.  I thought he was going to pee down both legs.  He was laughing that hard.  "Ya know," he said, "You can't make that shit up."