Friday, August 20, 2004
With regards to the Flying Dutchman
The high-miles SUV, crammed to the globe light with tents, provisions and enough sunscreen to drown a family of giraffes, had been rolling along for countless miles when the topic of the Flying Dutchman came up.
In case you were like these beleaguered SUV passengers and had never heard of said Netherlands native, here goes:
The story is that an old-timey mariner from Holland did something that turned the unseen forces of the universe against him. It was evidently a whopper of an offense because the punishment was severe. The sailor was condemned to sail the seas forever, against the wind, never coming to port, until Judgment Day.
The SUV driver, who was chauffeuring his wife, rising high school freshman son and rising senior daughter on a short family vacation, had been wondering if he had suddenly been tried in absentia and was the new Flying Dutchman, only this one being condemned to drive an endless highway, forever, until Judgment Day.
The guy has just one question about this sentence. Will there be a gas station open?
The good news was, there was gas available. More sobering, they found it while driving from Virginia to South Carolina to North Carolina without stopping.
If this sounds not much like sports to you, in a way, that's true. But the heroes (or victims, if you prefer) of this tale were plenty sporting enough.
Foolish, too, which is why they shall remain, for literary purposes, anonymous. You may know them and thus be tempted to point and laugh meanly when you see them in public.
The original plan had been to visit the Outer Banks of North Carolina for some camping and other sun-baked and saltwater-cured outdoor activities. Problem was, there was this hurricane that blew in a couple of days before this optimistic excursion was to deploy. Information on conditions at Hatteras was sketchy or unavailable for a couple of days. The question arose in family conference: Should we take our chances and just go?
After extensive deliberations, the decision was made to find alternate accommodations. At length, a state park in coastal South Carolina, south of hurricane-free Myrtle Beach, was found and called.
"Oh sure," said the lady on the phone, "we have all kinds of room here at the park campground. You just be down here by 11:30 Saturday morning and you'll be fine." At 11 that Saturday, after a cheerful six-hour drive from Virginia, a man who had chosen the curious fashion option of dark brown Bermuda shorts, dark knee socks and black wingtip shoes greeted the vacationers at the park gate.
"Do we have any room?" the man said with undisguised glee. "Of course not! We filled up about 7 this morning. They were lining up at 6 when we opened."
"But the lady said . . ."
"She must not have known much. You can go 17 miles north, though. We have another state park right in Myrtle Beach. They may have room. Of course, that park isn't nearly as nice as this one."
He wasn't kidding about that. Take your pick of the unfortunate aspects of the park: the microchip-sized camp sites; the jets flying in at an altitude of what looked like 10 feet every 15 minutes, right overhead, for landings at the municipal airport next door; the Harleys, which rivaled the jets in racket, that belonged to what seemed like at least half of the other campers.
That isn't to mention the family reunion the size of a small town that was under way at the park. "Cousins by the Dozens" proclaimed the banner over the assembled picnic tables. Apparently, the signmaker couldn't count, but who could blame him with that mob.
"No way we're staying here," the wife said. "I'm calling the Outer Banks again."
At length, a private campground in Hatteras was reached.
"We have plenty of room," the lady said. "I'll make you a reservation. It'll only take you three hours to get here."
Fat chance, the driver thought. I'll plan on five.
"Are we there yet?" came the stock question from the back seat after the six-hour mark of continuous driving had been passed.
At that point, the legend of the Flying Dutchman came up.
After 7 1/2 hours driving from Myrtle Beach to the Outer Banks, the travelers were setting up camp by headlight. Leave home in the dark, set up camp in the dark. What poetic balance.
They considered themselves lucky, though. After all, the poor lost sailor from Holland didn't even have an SUV, much less headlights.
