June 10, 2002 As I've mentioned here many times, Toney and I have been considering submitting to the dubious cult of camping as a means of traveling on the cheap, and to consequently allow us as many experiences as possible before some major organ failure limits us to a life of Golden Girls reruns, TV trays, and a Tupperware prescription organizer. At least that's been the ongoing plan, in the abstract. So, our trip to Cape May this weekend was designed as a trial run in a strange new world. Toney booked us at a place called Beachcomber Camping Resort, which received a five-star rating from Woodall's (yes, Woodall's goddamnit... get off my back). Two hundred nineteen miles from our house, according to Mapquest, so we were looking at, what?, three hours on the road? Not bad. A casual little jaunt to the shore. I like saying "shore." It sounds so aristocratic. It's the frickin' beach where I'm from, so "shore" makes me feel a little sporty. Anyway, the casual drive turned out to be anything but casual. We got bogged down in a Philadelphia cluster-fuck of cars that I didn't believe could be resolved. At one point I was convinced some person not even born yet would eventually find scores of skeletons strapped into metal boxes sitting in single file for miles and miles, and would stand there scratching his head in confusion. Our little trip ended up taking over five hours, and was nerve-wracking to boot. We passed several fresh wrecks along the way where people were obviously hurting badly, which is always frightening. People writhing on stretchers freaks me the fuck out. But we finally made it, and I'd made a silent vow to not bitch about every little thing, so I was biting my lip when we passed through the gates. I was trying not to focus too much on the groups of junkies and scary-ass white trash/carnival workers we'd passed while driving through town. Fuck. What were we getting ourselves into? But everything was better once we checked in at the Beachcomber. The place is huge, and obviously well-run. Kids and families in bathing suits were everywhere, zipping around on golf carts and walking about on foot. A playground with a giant concrete elephant in the middle was a beehive of activity, as was the swimming pool next to it. I got a good feeling immediately. They made me put down eighty-five dollars CASH as a security deposit, but I knew about that bullshit in advance so I didn't grumble too much. Then they gave us a map to our cabin, which didn't make any sense, so we were immediately lost. The cabin looked pretty cool from the outside, with a big screened porch and everything, so we were getting pretty excited. When we pulled into the driveway and opened our doors we were immediately assaulted by very loud Afro-American style pop music originating from a couple doors down, but I remembered my vow and we went inside without any bitching. The inside was cool too. It reminded me of the sleeping quarters when I went away to camp as a kid. There was a bedroom and a tiny bathroom (no shower, just a sink and an airplane toilet), the main room had two bunk beds and a big open sitting area, and on the rear was a ladder leading up to a loft where more people could sleep, I suppose. Here's a picture of the inside of the cabin I snapped while hanging from the ladder. As we carried in our stuff I noticed a shitload of dusty kids running all around, from the cabin next to ours to the campsite across the street, and back. Incredibly loud rap music was blasting from somewhere nearby and there was a lot of general hollering. On my second or third trip to the car I saw a fat woman with a cigarette dangling off her lips struggling with a huge log in her arms. "I want this log," she mumbled to nobody in particular, cig a-jumping as she spoke. What the hell?! I felt like I was up some West Virginia holler. Toney was getting upset, because we were apparently going to be camping next door to Squeaky Fromme and her family all weekend, and she fished out her cell phone and called the office to complain -- only minutes after arriving. Shit, I thought, these people are gonna know who's bitching, and they'll probably slash our tires in the night. After the phone call we went out for a walk and saw that our neighbors had a spread of liquor over there like something you might see on a cruise ship! It was unbelievable. They were obviously there to party, which made us even more discouraged. It was gonna be a long weekend. On our walk we discovered that the rest of the place was quiet and sane; there was only one pocket of trashiness and our bed was situated right in the middle of it. It was 99% Norman Rockwell 1% Spahn Ranch, and I guess we got "lucky." The matriarch of the group was the woman with the log, and she reminded me of Divine. She was a raspy-voiced broad, with God knows how many dirty kids in tow. And they knew the people across the street, and the folks in the cabin next door to them. They may have all come there as a group, but I'm not sure. Everyone had cigarettes surgically attached to their lips and the men were outfitted with muscle shirts and Coors Lite cans, while the women had unfortunate teeth spacings and margaritas. There were loads of teenage girls too, and they looked semi-normal from a distance, but up close, whew! I guarantee even the thirteen year olds have had three times as many sex partners as I have. Rough. A cross-eyed boy sat next to the campfire and repeatedly sprayed lighter fluid into it, causing frightening flare-ups. When we got back from our walk one of the men was swinging a Civil War hatchet, trying to break up the log the woman had "found" (it was probably being used as a table at somebody else's camp), and Divine was in the middle of the street hollering curse words into a cell phone. A station wagon with the back window busted out was parked in the road, and kids were running all around and screaming. Fucking 2Pac or some shit was blasting at ear splitting level, screen doors were slamming over and over: WHAP!, and somebody was repeatedly revving the engine of beat-up old Ford pick-up. I think their stereo was equipped with karaoke capabilities too, because occasionally I'd hear someone's amplified voice chanting along with the profanities. One time when I walked past their cabin I think somebody yelled "kiss my ass" into the thing. That's when I decided to end my six-month beer moratorium. I found a liquor store nearby and purchased twelve ice cold Yuengling lagers. There was simply no other way; the gods had spoken. That night we cooked burgers on the grill, and built a campfire. I wanted to roast marshmallows, because I always loved it as a kid, but it wasn't exactly like I remembered... with a recording of an angry black man yelling "Die motherfucker, die!" in the background. The next morning I walked out on the porch with a nice cup of coffee, ready to hear the birds chirping and smell the bacon frying, but was met instead by the sounds of somebody next door having a violent coughing fit. Ah, nature... There's lots more, including a little sightseeing, but I'll have to continue it tomorrow. I'm all out of time here... June 11, 2002 On Saturday morning we got up and slurped coffee made with the pungent tap water from the bathroom of our little Beachcomber cabin, and plotted our first real day at Cape May. Except for an extended coughing jag, we hadn't yet heard anything from the Manson Family next door. I guess they were sleeping it off. But you got the feeling it was an extremely fragile silence, and wouldn't last. After putting it off as long as I could, I finally hoisted my big ass out of the chair and began preparing for the thing I'd dreaded the most: the bathhouse. I slipped into the fancy pair of flip-flops Toney had purchased for me especially for this trip, and started getting my shit together. "What's that noise?", Toney wanted to know, and I realized it was my faggy shoes -- hissing. Every time I'd take a step they'd let out an extended sigh. Well that's just excellent. Where'd she get these things, Clown Outfitters? Fuck. Luckily I had the bathhouse all to myself. There were no George Michael lookalikes in Wham! shorts or anything like that, so I was greatly relieved. It cost twenty-five cents for five minutes of hot water, which was a little annoying, but not the end of the world. I hurried and got it over with, afraid I'd have something all soaped up and the water would shut off, but it all worked out. While I was toweling off, inside my little individual shower stall, somebody came into the bathroom outside and ripped off four or five powerful bassoon farts in quick succession, then left. Apparently he'd come in there for that specific reason. I imagined him telling his wife, "I'm gonna walk down to the bathhouse and fart. I won't be long..." The thing I quickly learned about Cape May is it ain't cheap. It felt like everywhere we went a vacuum hose would emerge from the floorboards and suck a little more cash out of my pocket. Shit. You can't even wash your ass without forfeiting some money. I tried not to bitch about every little thing like a crusty old man (we were on vacation, after all), but we were spending money -- seemingly on nothing. That kind of thing rubs me the wrong way. We went to check out the lighthouse and got turned around somehow, and ended up on a beach where an old World War I shipwreck is still sticking out of the water. Kinda cool, but when we read up on it we found that the ship was constructed entirely of concrete!? Who could've thought that was a good idea? Did they make asphalt airplanes too? Weird. We found the lighthouse and it cost five bucks each to climb to the top. The little old lady selling tickets launched into suggestive selling mode and tried to talk us into buying "discount" tickets for other touristy attractions around town. Irritating. The lighthouse was built in the 1860's I think, and has a 199-step spiral staircase inside. We started up and had a difficult time whenever we'd meet somebody on their way down. We'd have to put our back against the wall and inhale deeply so they could get past. It was a little claustrophobic, especially near the top where it was the most narrow. Finally we reached the top, and the view was pretty spectacular. Inside the room where the light itself is housed there was a cool old guy there to answer questions. He was wearing a tie with lighthouses on it, and a keeper's cap, and was extremely enthusiastic. I talked to him for five minutes or so, and he was breaking out old photos and charts and things to illustrate his explanations. He was great! The guy was into that lighthouse, and I appreciated it. When we finally made it back on safe ground we saw two extremely fat people at the ticket desk, and I practically shouted to Toney: "There ain't no way!! Give me my camera!" I mean these two weren't just a little chubby, they were sideshow fat. Both were sporting an elaborate network of fanny packs, camera bags, and purses, and each was huffing and puffing, apparently from the sheer exertion it required to mobilize themselves across a level floor. There was no way in hell they could climb to the top of that lighthouse! I wanted to stick around for the show, but Toney pulled me out of there before I could even snap a single photo. As we walked to the beach I was incredulous. "I'm being served up comedy here on a platter, and you won't even allow me to grab the brass ring!!" I was hollering, completely beside myself with disappointment. "What if they get stuck up there, or what if one of them falls down the stairs?" I said, "It would be like Raiders of the Lost Ark where Harrison Ford is running from the giant ball!" Shit. Maybe the lighthouse people pay them to occasionally climb to the top, to keep the inner walls clean? Maybe they're human pipe cleaners? A major missed opportunity! The beach was cool. We walked around down there and checked out the old dilapidated WWII bunker, which was rather imposing and spooky. Supposedly during the war that thing was packed full of ammo and guns, to protect the American coastline. Several German submarines were sunk by men in that bunker, and now the thing's just slowly falling down. There was something a little creepy about it, that I couldn't really put my finger on. It must've been a strange time, living during World War II. The rest of the day was spent walking around downtown Cape May, and checking out all the awesome old Victorian houses, and the scores of money-sucking businesses lining the streets. I've never seen so many bed and breakfast inns in my life. There must be hundreds of them. And almost all had No Vacancy signs hanging out front. Incredible. We made a mental note to return and stay a few nights in one of those kick-ass places at a later date. Yeah, it'll never happen. I bought a Cape May coffee mug, like the Ugly American Tourist that I am, and some salt water taffy. I guess salt water taffy was invented there, when a candy maker's shop was flooded after a storm, or something. Sounds pretty horrifying; don't human placentas and wads of bloody gauze wash up on those beaches?! But whatever; the shit is good -- except for the tan ones. Stay away from the tan taffy, it tastes like a human ass. We had expensive Maryland crab soup for lunch and it was really good too, then we decided to take another walk on the beach before returning to Spawn Ranch. Yep, it cost four bucks each to get onto that beach. It shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. I'm nearly forty and I've never had to pay cash to get onto a beach in my life! What a scam. But we did it (vacation, remember), and it was fun once my blood pressure finally worked its way back down to normal levels. It's a really nice beach, big and clean, so I guess it was worth it in the long run, but something ain't right about it. When we arrived back at the Beachcomber our neighbors were in a full-on frenzy of drunken activity. The stereo blared: "I was gonna eat your pussy, but then I got high...", cigarettes bobbed and beer cans popped. Screaming kids ran all around and that goddamn screen door must've slammed a thousand times per hour. We busted out our Yuenglings and settled onto our screen porch for the evening. After a few beers it actually became semi-entertaining to watch. At one point a guy was screaming into a cell phone: fuckin' this and fuckin' that... it sounded like he was having a heated argument, but then he said, "Well, I just called to say hey," and hung up. The hell?! And that's about it.
That's our big trip to Cape May. After a quick thirty-dollar
breakfast (thieving bastards) the next morning, we headed home.
It was fun, and we'll probably go back. Heck, we may even stay at
Beachcomber again. The place is nice and reasonably priced, and we
couldn't get that "lucky" again with our neighbors, right? All
in all we both came away from our trial camping run with a positive
feeling. It was good. |
