Ben Saves the Day

We were especially proud of our boondocking that night, knowing well it was probably the last time we could get away with it, at least on this trip, because soon we’d be towing a 14-foot boat, which makes it even harder not to stand out. We drove to the outskirts of town, headlights illuminating fields of tufted grasses and spiky palmettos and dense hammocks of arthritic live oaks – Florida reboot of Hansel and Gretel’s forest, concealing a meth lab instead of a gingerbread house.

We found a partially cleared lot across from the Water Treatment Plant which appeared to be used as a turnaround and storage for odd pieces of equipment; there was a dumpster, an old trailer, a stack of utility poles, and a row of concrete pipes which screened the back corner from view of the street. We nosed the camper into the trees for extra camouflage, and passed a peaceful night, listening to the tree frogs and the wind ruffling the palm fronds. 

We hopped out to see the back corner ripped off our cozy little home on wheels.

We rose early to avoid any unwanted encounters of the human kind. To get out of our hiding place, Ben had to make a tight five point turn, but so tight that we thought to have me get out and direct him. He backed up to the edge of the dirt, the back end of the truck grazing a clump of tall scrub grass. When he pulled forward he felt the truck catch, as if on a stray tree branch, so he gave it a little gas, and that’s when we heard the hideous splintering sound.

We hopped out to see the back corner ripped off our cozy little home, tearing a jagged crack, like a lightning bolt, through the flimsy wall of foam and particle board.

One of our rear bottom jacks (the thick metal posts that support the camper when it’s not mounted to the truck, and retract to about bumper height when not in use) had caught on a bale of wire fencing that was hidden in the tall grass. When Ben pulled forward, it ripped the bolts from the frame and detached the entire jack, top and bottom, from the camper, exposing a tangle of electrical cords and the upholstered cushions of our dinette. The latter felt particularly violating for some reason.

I swore hysterically, half-sailor half girly-girl. We’d already been through so much. Even before we left Massachusetts, we’d dealt with a frozen jack, a stuck pop-top, too-big tie-downs; then, we were barely under way when the vacuum brake booster failed. Now this, it was just too much.

It would hit Ben harder, but not yet. For now he was in problem solving mode.

We took it to the nearest fabricator. He was no Darren. He said it was outside his area of expertise, and to take it to an RV dealer. They would have to replace the whole back. It would take weeks, longer if they had to order parts, and it would cost us thousands. Our vacation was over. For something “outside his expertise,” he sounded awfully sure about this.

“You have insurance for it, right?” Very funny!

He had his power tools.                                      What we didn’t have was power.

We left and started calling around for a second opinion. Nobody picked up. Ben examined the camper again.

“It’s not that big a deal,” he said. “It just needs to be bolted back on. I can do it. I just need lag bolts and my power tools.”

He had his power tools with him. What we didn’t have was power. It had been two days since we plugged in at the KOA. Even after driving 600 miles from North Carolina, we only had enough battery to run the refrigerator and operate the roof jack.

We drove straight to Home Depot. Ben went inside while I got out all his tools and spread them out on a folding table in the shade. Nobody paid any attention. I guess by Florida standards it wasn’t that weird.

We’d been on the fence about buying a generator; they were expensive, stinky and noisy and it was one more heavy thing to drag around.

The fence was gone. Ben was back in 20 minutes with a giant Ryobi-green box, despite talking to three Home Depot employees, none of whom could tell him either the price or the wattage.

It took about three hours, and three more trips into Home Depot, but he did it. He reattached the bottom jack, and more importantly, the top jack, which raises and lowers the soft top.

Even before the accident, there was always a moment of anxiety every time we pressed the button on remote that operated the top jack, followed by a sigh of relief as the jack groaned to life, the rubber fabric slowly lifting and expanding, like a diaphragm inhaling fresh air, into a into a spacious tent with screens on every side. Without the soft top, the camper is pretty much uninhabitable, we can’t stand up in the kitchen and we can’t access the bed at all.

This time, when the jack started, and the ceiling lifted, I nearly burst into tears. It wasn’t a permanent fix, but it would last the night, it might even last until we got home.

We spent the rest of the day, and the next, at the beach, as our nerves slowly unspoiled on the sand.