Day Thirty Seven: Of Beaches and Bathroom Stalls
Distance: 35 mi.
Song of the Day: Oasis — Wonderwall
Joke Song of the Day: Van Halen — Panama
6AM: Lizzie and I lay silently on sleep pads for thirty seconds, watch the sun bake through the cedars in soothing. pre-morning campground stillness. Slink down the dirt road back to highway swatting at rather vicious yellow flies; pay no camping fees as there’s no clear way to pay at this hour.
Cross the slow-rising North Bay bridge on a forgiving beige shoulder into mild Panama City weekend traffic. An hour later the view explodes into full panorama of ocean and Panama City North, bay waters and beach cottage towns West. A dedicated bike path creeps along unbeknownst to us until we spot two dutch bikes bobbing along; cut across the highway to join it and coast along bike lanes thru Sunnyside and Rosemary beach.
Eat our dwindling supply of market fresh veggies and kill a jar peanut butter on a watermelon-shaped bench. Dozens of beach cruiser bikes pass us, some smiles but we’re mostly ignored.
2PM: Nine miles on we spot signs for Grayton Beach State Park. Pull in and discovery that a single tent site is available due to a cancellation ten minutes ago. Lizzie clearly wants to snatch it up so we do.
Lock bikes at Grayton Beach, descend no more than a few feet from the wooden plank walkway before our shirts fly off (Lizzie wears a sports bra) and we ram ourselves into the ocean. The beach was lined with red flags signaling a heavy riptide and ‘no swim’ conditions so we swim cautiously, not above our wastes; riptide truly is vicious. I bodysurf in a hectic onslaught of rapid waves which double or triple one another, crashing incongruently into the sand bars. We can see storm clouds hurdling towards us in the distance — don’t think too much of it as we dry off face down on the busy, windy beach.
7PM: Suddenly the entire town is in commotion about the weather. Storms continue to widen and worsen on the horizon; an ominous darkness descends on the sky as we coast through town looking for an affordable meal. Our supplies are running too low to cook our own dinner, especially the denatured alcohol serving as camp fuel; and we don’t have much for calories which we need desperately at this point in the day.
We decide on the Craft Inn; they happen to be featuring a Grimm’s sour beer on tap (all the way from Brooklyn!) and an unreleased celebration beer from Pipeworks, my favorite brewery. I order a cobb salad and a bowl of meaty chili to absorb some of the booze; cobb salad is my go-to healthy but hearty meal and pubs usually make it perfectly. We pay a few dollars into the local guitarist’s tip jar and relax a bit.
9:30PM: At this point it’s clear we are waiting on a serious thunderstorm to hit us. I pose the question to Lizzie about whether we should stay sheltered in the bare until Saturday night closing time — at least we’ll be relaxed in here — or whether she’d prefer to get back to campground. Decide campground. The short ride back is filled with heat lightning and booming thunder breaks that shake the sky with a cadence and intensity I have truly never seen before. Hair stands on end as lightning crackles but the rain is light and we carry on.
10PM: Lizzie starts receiving flash flood warnings on her phone, nerves climb steadily as we get pelted with initial phasings of hard rain. I check the weather radar — it’s an epidemic of orange and red fractal patterns heading directly for our barrier island on the gulf, which looks puny in comparison to the ensuing storm. Two or three times we leave the tent to reassemble our pack; we simply don’t have the gear to weather rain accumulating at 2 to 4 inches per hour. Shortly after stacking our panniers on a picnic table we hear a hostile growing and a loud THUD — look out to find a particularly wild looking raccoon trying to make off with our food bag. Lizzie shorts and feints at it, actually causing the creature to feint back and snarl with a short charge. Already shaken by the storm, we find the creature utterly terrifying, cowering in our tents until we hera no more noises. Eventually I leave the tent to re-secure the gear and try to get everything in a state where we can depart rapidly if we need to. Lizzie receives another update — a nearby town gets hit with “quarter sized” balls of hail, advises all residents of Niceville to move indoors and warns against damage to ceilings and roofing. Lizzie is really freaked out at this point and I unintentionally bark at her that I need her to keep rational, evidence for own irascible panicked state. Niceville is fifteen miles northwest and there’s no reason to conclude we are in immediate hail danger. The storm itself as well as the warnings rolling in WRITTEN IN CAPS WITH SHARPLY ALARMIST LANGUAGE spook us to the core.
I rub Lizzie’s shoulder for a moment and we face one another soberly in our tiny tent. I’m not certain what else there is to do but try to remain calm; I’m not sure where else I could go. We hear large campers and trucks slamming doors, revving engines as they leave the campground and drive off. Why is everyone leaving? Do they know something we don’t — is something terrible about to happen?
I ask Lizzie if there’s anything I can do to help her feel less stressed out. She asks me to go seek help/advice from a neighboring campsite and I do. I meet three women who resemble a post-apocalypse feminist gang, as depicted in Mad Max or the likes; or perhaps my nerves are putting a Holderlin-esque spin on my experience. The ladies do not really understand that we’re on bicycles; but they have camped through many storms on this island, and they advise me to either get in our car (can’t do) or retreat to the campsite bathrooms (can do.)
I report back to Lizzie. We decide to remain in the tent with all of our belongings ready to shove in bags to make a run for the bathrooms. We’ll have to leave the tent up overnight if we do — there’s simply no way to pack it with the storm and horror around us.
Midnight rolls around, CACKLE BOOM CACKLE BOOM nobody has slept a wink and the thunder reverberates through the very earth. The wind and rain continue to become more and more intense — the insane feeling dawns that we have no real means at our disposal to assess the threat. Decisively we agree to throw our bags together and flee for the bathrooms.
With wrecked nerves, a serious sunburn, stressed and tired muscles and a low supply of food, I roll out my sleep pad over the farthest shower stall in the bathroom and stare into the fluorescent lights that bathe the restroom. I’m an impatient at the insane asylum. I try to listen to Brahms’ symphonies and relax — the music is truly absurd and I turn it off. The room is cool, probably only 70 degrees, and not humid; i tell myself “there is nothing wrong, you are safe, there is nothing wrong, you are safe” until I forget to, and pass over into sleep.
