Nature’s Wrath
So it’s Saturday afternoon on Caper’s Island off the coast of Charleston, the weather can be called iffy at best. Two strapping young men with high hopes and dreams have weathered two days of grueling South Carolina summer’s heat and sun, often missing patches of skin with their sunscreen and scraping sand out of every nook and cranny. They like to think they are suffering, when really their friends had just left a few hours ago after bringing them beer and fellowship. Like castaways, the two are hunched over a meager fire, scarfing down the remains of an enormous black drum caught at the crack of dawn that morning. The whiting have a strange aftertaste- of firestarter, so they are left uneaten. The water is by no means running low- there must be over three gallons left, enough for a veritable shower in the morning. You may scoff at these two adventurers, but sunburn, insect bites, and sand in their food have worn away at their spirits. They’d already lost one brave companion, and knew this would be their last night on Caper’s Island. As the storm clouds drew nearer, the wind picked up. The tide rose, relentlessly. The sand had loosened around the rain-fly stakes, which was by now flapping uselessly by a single hold in the wind. The outlook was grim. In a last ditch effort to escape the tides, the castaways move the tent as far up the beach as it will go, before running into a wall of spiky drift wood. Ghost crabs eye their actions curiously from their burrows, thinking they would have a feast in the morning. After finally succeeding in setting up their humble abode, the men manage to secure the rain-fly. Things are looking up, it seems, until a portion of the rain-fly rips and sets the whole thing flapping in the wind again. By now the sky is black. Not gray, not, charcoal, but black. Success is theirs at last, and the two quickly shuffle into the meager shelter they still have. They toss their scraps to the hungry wildlife outside the tent and pray it will satiate them until morning. Just as the last piece of olive-oil soaked whiting flies from the tent, the first raindrops hit the nylon fly. All holes are barred, and the men beg their shelter will hold. The weird little moth-like bugs that gather in every crevice of the tent and to this day make the author shiver, dart from hiding every now and then. They are a small reminder of the army of their brethren who are waiting for the drop of a crumb. It is early, but the adventurers decide to sleep out the storm to avoid the suffering of being awake. Sunscreen is still a thick, oily layer on their skin. Their skin may as well be made of glue, every movement seems to pick up sand that scrapes away at their bodies like a carpenter with 30 grit sand paper. They lay on the hard, packed-sand floor of their tent and wonder what brought them to this forsaken isle. The wind keeps its pace as the rain quickens. Soon it becomes apparent that their shelter is far from dry. The bearded one suffers most, the youth has found the high ground away from the wet. Before long, the water is dripping from several places on the ceiling of the tent and each drop seems like an hour of water torture. In a last ditch effort to save their sanity, the two survivors rig up a second roof, diverting the water to a low point in the tent near their feet. The second roof is small, however, and soon the two find themselves side by side. Close to tears, the two begin to laugh. What a great vacation. The situation couldn’t have been worse, but they couldn’t stop laughing. They discuss many things, but mostly the bearded one’s woman because he can’t stop complaining about how much he misses her. His strength lies in his spirit and his mind, but not his heart. With all forms of entertainment out of reach, the two begin to fall asleep. It is not long after the two fall into an uneasy sleep within butt-touching distance of each other, that the rain-fly makes another escape and begins its flapping once again. The noise wakes them both, and a tense game of half-dreaming rock paper scissors ensues. The youth has to brave the weather and fight the wind to repair the fly. Rain pelting in his face, body slick with a mixture of sunscreen grease, sweat, and rain, the youth secures the fly for the final time that evening and stumbles his way back into the tent. Eventually, the two weary adventurers fall into an uneasy sleep, feeling thoroughly sorry for themselves.
Weathered and weary, the wanderers awoke at the crack of dawn the next day. They fell to their knees outside their tent and threw themselves upon the sand, thankful to be alive and still on the island. They packed together their belongings, fighting for their gear against the strange bugs that had crept into every crevice of anything that had been left outside. It was not yet high tide, but they would rather drag their vessels across miles of oyster beds than spend another minute on the island that had taken their highest spirits and crushed them to a mixture of sunscreen, fishguts, and sand. Beaten, hungry, and thoroughly sunburned in patches across their bodies, the bearded one and the youth made their way back to their homes. They navigated treacherous waters, encountered monstrous water creatures, and eventually found their way to whence they had come. As they dragged their oyster-ravaged vessels up the concrete, they knew they had been thoroughly beaten down by the wrath of Caper’s, but already they began to feel the hunger. The hunger to return to the island that had taught them about love, understanding, how to bring about world peace, how to clean black drum with nothing but a plank of driftwood and a sharp filet knife and a descaler and plenty of water, how to start a fire with 3/4 of a brick of firestarter and a quart of lighter fluid, and most importantly, how to appreciate a good *** kicking from nature.
