In December 2002, everything was going okay. My wife, Kate, and I had been married for fifteen years. The salon she owned for most of our marriage was booming. My amazing kids, ages ten and twelve at the time, were in school and having fun. I was still a stay-at-home dad, watching the kids, working on my first book, and doing readings for the occasional celeb. But something was off.
The winters in Minnesota are brutal. People around here go to Siberia to warm up. You have to get away or you end up going mental—or worse, ice fishing. Our plan was to spend New Year’s someplace warmer, and since I don’t fly, we decided to take a road trip to our timeshare in Daytona Beach, Florida.
We had done this a couple times before and let me tell you, it’s not an easy trip with two kids and a dog driving all the way to Florida in a minivan. It’s not just the port-a-potty after a chili and popcorn cook-off smell that you can never get out of the car. It’s the lack of leg room and movement that makes you pray for an early death. Your legs hurt, your butt hurts, you look like hell. Every time we’d come back from one of those trips, we’d swear to God we’d never do it again. My kids considered it child abuse.
But this year I had a plan. This year we were going to go cross-country in style and luxury, this year I was renting a Winnebago.
My first clue that I was about to embark on the trip from hell should have been the luck I had in finding a thirty-five-foot Winnebago at the first place I called. My father always said, “When you play poker, never win the first hand. The gods see you don’t need luck because you already have it and you lose your shirt by morning.” I was told by just about everyone that knew these sort of things that finding a Winnebago to rent this close after Christmas, without reserving it six months in advance, was going to be nearly impossible.
But there I was talking to Winnebago Bob about his brand new thirty-five-foot Winnie Sunstar that just arrived that day, and how lucky I was to be the first caller to get it.
Had I ever driven a thirty-five-footer before? Bob wanted to know. “Of course I have,” I replied, “I’ve driven much bigger ones in the past, Bob, but I just love those little thirty-five-footers,” I said, lying through my teeth.
“Ah, great then,” Bob said, “you’re going to love this one, brand new, not a scratch on her.”
“Great, Bob,” I replied, “just the way I like ’em.”
And then, as I hung up the phone, and my fake smile slowly disappeared, the reality of the conversation hit me. I’d never driven a thirty-five-foot Winnebago before, was it big? Was it thick? I saw old people driving them all the time. How hard could it be? Besides, I drive the hell out of our minivan; I own the road in that puppy. How many times have I driven a U-Haul across the country? Three times? And nobody died during those trips. And with new modern technology, I bet they practically drove themselves.
Winnebago Bob’s wasn’t exactly across the street; in fact I’m not sure it was even in my state. But the drive out to boonyville gave me a chance to rehearse my best “howdy Bob, where’s the buttermilk” attitude, which I knew I’d need when renting a thirty-five-foot Winnie Sunstar for the first time. First impressions are important; my fear was that Bob would see through my casual, calm demeanor and let someone else rent the new Winnie. Or worse, charge me a “he looks like a psychic” fee when I was already barely able to make the deposit. So I cranked up the country music, put my hair in a baseball cap, and tried to channel the nearest dead truck driver I could find.
I finally made my way through the cornfields and the waste deposit plants and arrived at Winnebago Bob’s shortly before closing. This turned out to be perfect timing because WB was more interested in getting home to his little parts than checking me out. He met me at the door with the contracts and pen in hand, anxious to get that $2,000 deposit we had discussed earlier on the phone. “Did you bring cash?” he asked as he searched for the keys. “Yup,” I replied and I handed him the rolled-up twenties and c-notes I’d been saving since forever. “Good, good,” he answered back and quickly counted what I had just given him.
It was as he counted the last hundred that he actually looked at me for the first time. I smiled, he paused and gave me the once over. “Did we discuss insurance?” he asked with a weird look. “We sure did, Bob,” I replied. “We are covered.” The spring came back to his step.
He smiled. “That’s great, just great. Okay, she’s out back. Here are the keys, you can leave your car in the lot, and we’ll see you in ten days.”
With that, Winnebago Bob put the $2,000 in cash in his pocket, pointed to what looked like a small school on wheels, and started out the door to show me. “Wow, she’s a beaut,” I said, trying to hold back my shock.
“Oh yeah, she’s something,” he replied, as he put on his coat and searched for the keys. “And remember,” he said, “not a scratch on her.” He put out his hand, dropped the keys into mine, slapped my shoulder, and said, “Have a good trip, Mr. Bodine.”
As I pulled out of Bob’s I was surprised at how well the Winnie handled. Granted, I didn’t have to back up or do a sharp turn, but it felt easy to drive and light for a thirty-five-footer.
I showed Kate and the kids the Winnebago and the kids got excited. All the gear was packed and ready to go, so it was just a matter of putting it all in the Winnie and hitting the road. Kate was a bit freaked out. “That’s huge,” she said and I of course looked at my crotch and said thank you. She gave me an “oh please” look and we headed out of town, excited, optimistic, and ready to leave the grey and cold behind.
Our plan was to stay ahead of a storm front that was moving through Illinois. In order to do this, we had to go through Wisconsin in six hours. Normally it takes eight, but I figured since we only had to stop for gas because we had everything we needed in the Winnie, we might be able to shave off an hour or two and be ahead of the storm. But as things go, that didn’t happen, and by the time we got to northern Illinois we were in a full-fledged blizzard.
We were about five miles away from our first stop, Mattoon, Illinois. We had stopped there on our last trip. It was a cute little town with all the things you need when you’re traveling cross-country. The hotel we stayed in when we last went through had hook-ups for RVs, and I was excited to spend our first night in the camper.
We were slowly making our way through Illinois.
If you’ve ever traveled through the great state of Illinois, you know that the highways tend to be slightly elevated from the corn fields and alfalfa farms. This, I’m told, helps with drainage during thunderstorms or prevents wildlife from casually walking across a busy highway. But not so great if you add a trace of snow and a touch of wind. Throw in a blizzard, like the one that followed us from our home state of Minnesota, and it’s downright dangerous.
By now traffic was at a crawl. The storm was in full force. I passed several cars in the ditch as we got closer to Mattoon. I thought to myself, “How stupid do you have to be to get stuck in a ditch, especially when you’re on a straight road?” Just about the time I was thinking that, the road curved sharply to the left. A cop with a flashlight was pointing traffic in the direction of the road, but the Winnie was having none of it. Instead of turning left, she decided she wanted to go straight, so headfirst we plowed into the deep snow ten feet past the road. As we did, I noticed the cop do the olé with his hands like a matador does to a charging bull, and I heard Kate yell, “here we go! here we go!”
When we finally stopped, we were waist high in a snow bank. The front end was buried to the point that you couldn’t see the headlights anymore. Snow was halfway up the front window and the back end was sticking out.
I asked if everybody was okay and they were. No scratches or bruises, just shock. The cop knocked on the door and asked if we were okay. We struggled to open the door, and when we opened it up he peered in. “Come on folks,” he said, “I’ll drive you into town.”
We gathered our things and headed out to the squad car. When I got out and looked at the RV, it was clear we weren’t going to get out on our own.
After he got off the radio, letting someone know he was bringing us in, the first thing he said was, “I thought you people from Minnesota knew how to drive in these conditions.”
To which Kate goes into the whole, “This is the first time my husband has driven an RV and normally he knows what he’s doing” monologue. I wasn’t there; I was in the back, staring out the window, wishing we had flown.
The next two days we spent arranging a tow, going back and forth to the RV, and enjoying the warm hospitality of Mattoon.
Finally, on day three and nine hundred dollars later, we were ready to leave. There was some damage to the Winnie, but nothing a little glue or duct tape wouldn’t fix.
For the next two days, my hands were so tight on the steering wheel that my knuckles were literally white. My head was playing tricks on me. It felt like the RV was floating all over the road. I kept seeing us going into another ditch, and now we were in mountain country. I wasn’t worried about going up, it was the coming down that had me freaked. And guess what? The storm had hit there too. Everywhere was wet, slippery, and steep.
Needless to say, the trip now had a different feel. The adventure vibe was replaced with a survival vibe. The mood in the RV was tense. Kate was mad because we weren’t going to spend New Year’s in Florida; we celebrated in some back-water town outside of Atlanta. The cold weather had made its way south, so even when we finally did arrive, it was going to be unseasonably cold. All our extra cash was gone, I was going to have to have someone wire us some.
Everything about this trip kept getting worse and worse. When we finally got to our timeshare, I pulled into the building, knocking off all the fancy, newly installed overhanging lights in the front entrance. Ting, Ting, Ting, Ting. They all popped off. Hoping nobody noticed, I tried backing up, but I almost went through a brick wall. Thank God the now-dented bumper stopped me.
We couldn’t just drive to a restaurant, no place to park. We couldn’t swim because it was freezing outside. We had no money to do anything fun, and even our dog Harry was bummed and bored.
Kate kept insisting we go to the lighthouse at the other end of the peninsula. I didn’t want to go, because I didn’t want to drive that damn RV anywhere. But by the end of the stay her “if we don’t do something other than sit in this timeshare, I’m going to kill you” talk had worn me down.
Off we went. It was around four o’clock in the afternoon when we left. We didn’t think about traffic because we were too busy hating each other. According to the pamphlet, the lighthouse closed at five, so time was a factor. But just like how everything went on that trip, we were stuck.
I couldn’t suggest we not go, because I still needed my testicles. If I drove slow, Kate would know I was stalling and life would equate to being in hell with a toothache. My only option was to get there any way I could, and get there fast.
Forty-five minutes of “take this road, no take that one, don’t miss the light” and finally we had reached our destination. By this time, Kate and I loathed each other. The trip, the crash, the weather, the RV. We were done.
I suggested I’d take Harry for a walk and she could take the kids to the lighthouse. I got no argument.
I grabbed the leash and the dog and off we went down the dirt road that got us there. About a half a block down I saw what looked like an abandoned road to my left. The trees lined the road, and as we went further, the trees got thicker and thicker. It was now dusk, the sun was setting, and a warm, soft light was filling the trees. I saw some houses up ahead, so I knew people must use this road. Still, it had an old feeling to it.
Further down the road, I smelled burning wood. I assumed someone in one of the houses had built a fire. It smelled nice, mixed with the cool air and the soft light, and I felt myself calming down from the drive. Then I heard singing, first faint and then, as I walked toward it, strong. It was happy sounding, just an accordion and some men singing old pirate songs.
Harry heard them too, and he stuck his nose up in the air to smell whoever was there. We were getting closer to the singing. To my left I saw a black cast-iron fence surrounding an unkempt yard. Inside the cast-iron fence I saw the men sitting around a fire, dressed in gear you’d see in the 1800s.
It looked at first like they were having a block party, but their clothes looked so authentic. We stopped and listened. Harry barked once, but I pulled on his leash to stop, so he just growled a bit. They didn’t take notice of us; they just kept playing and laughing. By now it was getting dark.
On the other side of the street was an old house, but it looked like nobody was home. I wondered if they knew these people.
Suddenly, I got this overwhelming feeling. I knew these people. One of them, wearing pirate’s gear with black and white striped knee-high socks, looked at me and motioned for me to come toward them. Then they all looked at me. I knew this man, I knew these people. They were my friends, I could smell the sea on them, and it all felt like home.
As one of them came closer to me, he was smiling. I could smell the rum on his breath. Harry started to bark again. I looked down to tell him to stop, but when I looked up, they were gone. Poof.
I could still hear the faint sound of music, but that too eventually went away.
They only things there were several old gravestones, littered within the fence. In the middle was a stone plaque, overgrown with plants, that read, “Dedicated to men who served under Ponce de León.”
I’ve never been that much into past lives, never saw the reason to be. I have enough trouble just getting through this life. But I know I was one of those men, I could feel it in my soul. I know I was a pirate. I wasn’t a great pirate, probably a deckhand of some kind, but that was my life.
Somehow seeing them changed everything. I understood why I struggle the way I do, why I think the way I do. It was a hard life back then, misery was commonplace, but so was laughing and drinking and fighting and adventure. I missed that smell, that fun. I could feel the sea and the wind, and I knew who I was.
By the time Harry and I made it back to the lighthouse, I was flying. I had never experienced anything like that before and I felt great.
Kate was still sour—the lighthouse closed before they let her climb to the top and basically it was my fault—but I didn’t care. She could have blamed me for the Kennedy assassination and I wouldn’t have cared.
The rest of the trip was a blur. I was so excited by my experience that I didn’t care about the drive back or explaining to Winnebago Bob why his new Winnie came back looking like it went off a cliff. It just didn’t matter. The crash didn’t matter, the driving, the cold, the fighting, nothing mattered. The whole trip was worth it.
Answers come. Even when you hate everybody and everything, they come. If you’re cynical, it doesn’t matter; they come. Not looking? They come. And when they do, all the crap you had to go through to get them doesn’t matter anymore either.