Christmas in Paradise

By Ashley Harris

“Camping? For Christmas? Are you nuts?” My family couldn’t believe it. For years, my house served as the nexus for the holidays, connecting family and tradition. On Christmas Eve, I always hosted a cookie painting party—complete with a turkey and all the trimmings—only to do it again the next day for even more family. After twenty-plus years, I needed a break.

Destination: Huntington Beach State Park, South Carolina. This park featured a quiet beach surrounded by a vast nature preserve with lakes and estuaries where loggerhead turtles and rare birds made their home. The roseate spoonbill with its Swiss-Army beak and pink tutu had likely already migrated south, but the park promised plenty more: bald eagles, ospreys, and egrets. Best of all, meteorologists predicted a warm December, with daily highs in the 70s, perfect for beachcombing and relaxing. After years of hustling for the holidays, this place sounded like paradise.

My husband, J.P., and I even dared to imagine that this would be the honeymoon we never had. And we would still have our own Christmas, courtesy of a little ceramic light-up tree brought from home.

Fearing a revolution, we didn’t inform our family until a few days before we left. But they had to have seen it coming because we’d spent the summer restoring our 1969 Airstream, scraping away mildew, replacing the floors, and updating the plumbing. Nonetheless, they were still aghast, and even my adult son threw a fit. “But what about my Christmas?” he cried.

Sunshine quickly melted my guilt, beaming down on us during the three-and-a-half-hour journey to the park. Still, we breathed a huge sigh of relief when our 2004 Silverado successfully lugged our 6,000-pound vintage beauty, newly shined, to our campsite. And once we set up, we still had time to hike to the beach. Finn, our beagle-terrier mix, instantly bonded with Ralph, a jubilant Labrador Retriever, and we laughed with Ralph’s owners as the two dogs romped in the surf. Later, a school of dolphins gathered in the shallows to whistle and show off. Paradise indeed. What could be more perfect?

A leaky shower fixture, what should have been a screaming scarlet red flag, quashed our initial enthusiasm. Uh oh. Fortunately, public facilities lay just footsteps away, and an early sunset meant I could sneak back and forth in my bathrobe. After all, we were roughing it, I reminded myself. And this self-appointed chef would not be overdoing it this year. Our daily fare would be simple: oatmeal for breakfast, soup and sandwiches on most days, with peanut butter crackers for snacks, but I had one trick up my sleeve. Our tiny freezer held frozen sirloins and Häagen-Dazs that I would serve on Christmas Eve.

The trickle from that dribbly faucet was nothing compared to the rain that came just three days later. Not just any rain, but sheets and sheets of it that turned the Airstream into an aluminum ark for the next 48 hours. The wind blew rain onto the back of the camper, which soaked the new mattress in our fold-out bed. Clinging to each other on the dry side night after night was not quite the intimacy J.P. and I had imagined.

The same 27-foot camper that seemed so spacious at first soon felt cramped and stuffy for me, J.P., and Finn. Although we had crammed the overhead compartments full of books we planned to read, even this favorite activity grew stale. We also tired of soup and sandwiches, and once the rain stopped, we drove the truck to Wendy’s in anticipation of salads and burgers. But on the way, the engine suddenly started smoking. Uh oh again.

As it turned out, there was no fire, just steam from a leaky hose fitting. J.P. found a mechanic next to a laundromat, so while he waited on the truck, I washed and dried the huge mound of soaked linens we used in a vain attempt to dry out our mattress. Camping, I thought grimly, felt less and less like paradise.

After days of clouds, the sun finally appeared again, sparkling across the lagoon where the birds frolicked. By now, temperatures cooled, and I traded shorts for jeans, but out of the corner of my eye I spotted a bright pink ball of fluff. Binoculars confirmed the presence of a lone spoonbill, packing her bags for Florida. As happy as I was to see her, our vacation still didn’t feel much like Christmas. Like the spoonbill, I missed my family, too, along with my church friends.  But there was still Christmas Eve, J.P. and I reminded ourselves. That magical night when Christ was born.

The steaks I cooked on our little gas-powered burner proved tough and chewy, and the Häagen-Daz we saved for this special night had melted, turning into a watery soup of cream. J.P. graciously slurped it with a spoon, but by then I had lost my appetite. As dusk fell, I remembered our little Christmas tree, hoping that its colored lights would brighten my mood. Hmm, now where was it?

We combed through compartment after compartment, but to no avail. Our anguish turned to accusations: “I thought you were going to pack it!”

“Wait,” said J.P., shushing me. He disappeared for a minute, only to return holding a tangled string of old-fashioned teardrop ceramic lights. No way those things will work, I had already warned him, knowing they were probably as old as the Airstream.

“Hold on,” he said. Soon, he led me outside and flicked a switch. The camper suddenly glowed with a halo of soft colored light, and we sat on the picnic table and basked in it. This trip, I realized, would be one we would never forget. And it finally felt like Christmas, which was paradise enough for me.