Waiting for the Last Gasp – Adam Overland

Tuesday morning at 3 a.m. I woke up with food poisoning. The next 36 hours are a blur. Somehow I made it through a day of work, though I cannot vouch for the quality of that work. I know also that at some point I felt like I could feel all my bones, and it seemed ridiculous how little skin and tissue separated those bones from the outside of my body. I sat for what seemed like hours on the camper toilet while vomiting into a bucket. Sleep was a fever dream, and whatever moisture was still in my body evacuated by way of a cycle of sweat and shivering.

Religiously, I’d describe myself as an optimistic agnostic. I don’t believe in a god, but I hope one exists, and if he/she/it punishes me for getting the particulars of the theology wrong, I will do my time in whatever hell is available. But when I’m vomiting, I always go back to my Christian roots. I call upon Jesus to save me. I pray. I make promises. It strikes me that Christian evangelists should have a hotline where they get dinged if someone is puking so that they can quickly call you and ask, “Hell0, do you accept our Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior?” Because I will answer, “Yes, anything to make it stop. I’ll go to church every Sunday. Save me, Jesus.”

Being so sick made me feel small and insignificant and alone. The worst part is I know what did it—and I deserved it. I bought a can of chicken from a Family Dollar. And I ate that can of chicken. 

There aren’t many grocery stores near Hunting Island. A park person suggested Family Dollar was the closest, and even that was nearly 20 miles. Pickings were slim there, nutritional value 0. Shelves were in disarray. I’ve never been to a Family Dollar, but at this one, you shopped there only if you needed to survive. I thought I’d add the chicken to some chickpeas and then add some chicken masala spice mix. It tasted alright. 

I think I still have it in my head that camping is about depriving yourself of things. Showers, good food, etc. Each year for close to a decade I’d take a backpacking trip through some mountains in California, or Oregon, or Canada with my friend, Nate, sometimes his girlfriend, Nancy. You take dry food, pump water from a stream, then cook. I haven’t been cooking like I do at home, and suddenly I’m recollecting cooking fondly. 

And although the camper has a kitchen, you end up putting all kinds of stuff on the counter, because there’s no place else for it. About the time you want to cook something it looks like too much work to find the space. The fridge is also small, so fresh food will last for a few days, but I’m at this campground for over 3 weeks. Still, I could have planned better, and I have now paid for it. I should have bought the tuna in a can. Not the chicken. Never the chicken. 

The last 36 hours I’ve managed to eat about 400 calories, mostly small bits of bread and liquids, so I’m feeling weak. My tummy is tender. But I walked to the beach in the late afternoon, saw horses and spoke to the women riding them because the horses couldn’t speak, though one looked at me like he wanted to. The riders said horses are allowed here during the slow months, Dec, Jan. and Feb., and people come from all around to ride. About every day I’ve been to the beach I’ve seen riders trotting up and down. When I said goodbye to the women I said, “Have fun…galloping” and felt like a complete idiot. 

I came back later to watch the sunset, sans fishing pole for the first time. The seagulls, one of whom I’ve named Terry, were not interested in loitering around me since I didn’t have the pointy thing that might get them food. I watched the waves and there were few people about and few distractions. A man, alone, walked down to the water and stared out at the ocean. And I know I’ve done that a hundred times, and so have so many others. And what are we looking for, and thinking? “Well, here it is. The end of the world.” Or, “Well, the ocean sure is big and I am insignificant in comparison.” Or, “I am but a grain of sand.” 

Take an average person, looking out into the vast ocean, and he or she may feel one of several things: Awe. A profound sense of beauty. A profound sense of connection.

Take a powerful man, consumed with himself and his place in the world, get him out of his suit and tie, and stand him looking out into the ocean and he may feel this: Fear. “Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!” is still one of my favorite lines of poetry.

At some point on this trip I’ve been meaning to try writing some fiction again, and maybe I will do that soon. This weekend I’m driving into Savannah for the day, maybe overnight. I visited once and loved it, I think because it seems like a city where the trees are the main thing, not an afterthought. 

Issue: My camper is starting to stink. I’m starting to miss my friends.