FAMILY CAMPING
Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
Sometimes, Mary Oliver
I realized it had been years since our family camped together. On the drive to Morro Bay, my wife and the boys debated how many years had passed. After a few minutes of confusion, we decided to ask Hannah, our family historian. Hannah has the superhero ability to remember all the details of our family history, including dates. For years, Elizabeth and Hannah’s “Dad’s silly moments” log captured my less-than-stellar episodes and mispronounced words. Every time they share a dad’s moment, it always brings a smile to our faces.
The central coast is rugged and green all year, notably featuring rolling hills dotted with iconic, ancient California oak trees. As my eyes trace the gentle curves of the hills, my soul begins to find a rhythm that has been stagnant. During this time of year, the hills proudly display the California bush sunflower, bursting with cheerful golden patches.
This trip was planned during their visit to us in Malaysia. By this time, we had welcomed our son-in-law and daughter-in-law (and the grandson to come). Along with family, we would also have three canine family members: two huskies and a chihuahua. It warmed my heart because for nearly two decades, we had gone camping almost every single year to the same site in Central Coast California, initiated by me. This time, it was their initiative. Not only that, but they organized everything as well. My only responsibility was to prepare morning hand-drip coffee and a Samgyupsal dinner, which I gladly volunteered for.
Since our time in Malaysia, where we watched the postseason baseball, we collectively became Dodger fans. Elizabeth, in particular, grew into an avid fan, following the players and statistics while also learning the intricacies of the game. Therefore, I thought we could watch a live stream of a Dodger game on my laptop, at least on the first night. Given the weak signal, we knew it wouldn’t work. Michael quickly pulled out baseball gloves, and the boys played catch with me, transporting me back to their Little League days.
Right before we went camping, I blurted out that this may be our last camping trip. My old body does not appreciate sleeping on the unforgiving ground, even with a quality sleeping pad. Michael loaned me his cot after we purchased a cot for my wife. Cots were game changers for us. During camping, Hannah looked me in the eye and told me, “Dad, this will not be your last camping trip.” I knew what she meant: that our family camping tradition would continue.
After a misty, gray morning, we drove further north to walk along the boardwalk on a bluff trail covered in late spring flowers, refusing to cede to summer. By this time, the sun had broken through, but the cool air remained, perfect for an easy stroll. Seagulls gracefully rode the wind with effortless ease. As I watched the rugged and hypnotic waves crashing against the shore, it was easy to lose my mind and find my soul, a soul that has always been in union with waves, sky, seagulls, and everything in between. No need for words; simply by paying attention, I come alive. And I am telling you about it.
Not to be outdone by the day’s performances, the night sky sparkled with white, yellow, and reddish gems against the gradients of a darkened background, spread out before us, causing the city folks to constantly wow. I could not remember the last time I saw that many stars. The very last night, Brad and I sat around the flickering campfire with our eyes adjusting to light and darkness repeatedly, and talked about life, prompted by Brad’s perceptive questions.
I must have thanked God so many times over the weekend: for our children, son-in-law, daughter-in-law, family dogs, nature, cosmos, small and big wonders, and for my undeserved, graced life.