J-9

The best thing about camping at Jekyl Island was packing up and driving home.

When Megh and I planned the trip a few months before, it was April in Georgia. When we drove through the aggressive barrier arm guarding entry to Jekyl Island, which fell with a speed and authority that seemed to say, “You will pay the $8 daily parking fee or the hood gets it,” it was early August, which, in Georgia, even along the coast, meant it was hot. Purgatory hot, where souls wander around asking out loud, “Where am I and what the hell am I doing here?” All the romanticism of an ocean camping trip evaporated when we pulled into the campground, followed a tattooed old dude in a golf cart to our campsite, stepped out into the wet-blanket humidity, and immediately started slapping at crazed mosquitos as it began to rain.

“We need to get the tent up,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” Megh said, and snapped a sarcastic salute.

That night, all seven of us squeezed into a four-person tent. We were out of the rain and away from the mosquitos, but the rainfly heated the inside like a sauna. We listened to The Green Ember and tried to fall asleep, but at around 1030 a group of people pulled into J-8, set up camp, started drinking, and didn’t stop talking until 0332.

I know the exact time, because it was when I looked down at my watch and said, “I hate this.”

-be cool and care