Much to my chagrin, I found myself deposited on my own isolated island in the middle of the Everglades, a muggy, mosquito infested little slice of nature. Resigned to spending a night alone in this dreamland – a nightmare of my school’s creation – I spread my mini-tarp half way between the the shore and the line of mangroves behind me, stuffed my sleeping bag inside the mosquito netting, and settled the bundle on the waterproof haven I hoped I had created – Oh, please, don’t let it rain! – before I brought myself down to the water’s edge, journal in hand, fighting the urge to make the worst of my predicament. Surly teen that I was, I rebelled against the very notion that I had be forced to spend a week in a swamp, learning “to use cooperation to solve group problems” and “sensitivity and respect for others.” I was freaking sensitive enough on my own without some idiotic organization telling me how to behave!
I perched on that shore prepared for my night of seclusion fielding mixed emotions: after three days trapped in canoes with classmates, I reveled in the silence as I watched the sun set over the marshy terrain, but as dusk encroached so did my desire to be indoors away from the vampiric insectoid-companions beleaguering my solitude. My skin had grown three inches thicker with layer upon layer of sunscreen, sand, sweat, and repellant, so under the netting I went, daily journal requirement fulfilled with a flourish as I scribbled, “gorgeous sunset, but this sucks” in the middle of the damp pages of my bedraggled composition book.
The sun sets early in the winter months. My night would be never-ending.
As I lay in my netted bower, fingertips raised above my head in the deepening darkness to prevent the aggregating antagonists from puncturing the barricade I had erected around my tender, if somewhat begrimed, skin I thought, yes, this is what hell feels like. I could see miniature mosquito morphology landing on the net, multitudes. Waiting. Waiting for me to sleep and relax my defensive front. Then they would strike. Piercing my protective layer, sucking my blood in spite of the net.
Contemplating this fresh hell, I turned my head aside to find I was not alone. A small, masked bandit of the rodent variety squatted not four feet from my face, rubbing his tiny hands together, observing me observe him. Cute, I thought. I had no food. I had nothing he could want. I knew it and he knew it, but I was an oddity yet undiscovered in his terrain.
“S’up?” Why not? There was no one else to hear me talking to him. Seemingly startled by my greeting, he scampered off into the bracken behind me as I returned to my meditation on the delights of swamp life.
A faint rustling sound emanated from the void and I craned my neck to witness the approach of my recent acquaintance accompanied by his (or, to be fair, possibly her) much larger companion. Both stood in the spot he alone had formerly occupied, rubbing their tiny hands together, observing me observe them.
“Brought a friend this time? I still have nothing for you.” They blinked. In unison. “I’m really not much of an exhibitionist, folks…” More blinking.
Fingertips still holding the ‘skeeter screen aloft, I closed my eyes and hoped for sleep. Day break. The break of day. If I didn’t break first.
Eyes open again and a third had joined the crew. It’s a freaking hoedown, I glumly thought to myself. “I’ll call you Nancy, and you Danny Boy, and you,” I said pointing at the largest one, “you’re Rocky.” Apparently offended by my spontaneous musical outburst following the naming ceremony, my three voyeurs turned tail and returned to the cover of the undergrowth obscured by the night’s blackness.
Exhaustion overtook me and sweet sleep swept me into a dreamless daze.
Time is difficult to measure in an unfamiliar environment. How long had I been sleeping? I wasn’t really sure, but I woke with a start to the startling sound of screeching. Blood curdling screams. Disoriented and suppressing a rising panic, I lay still, motionless, in the dark. Behind me. The noises came from the opaque murkiness behind me. As I listened to the night noises I realized they originated from where the raccoons had retired. Rocky and his gang were going at it. Frisky raccoon festivities in full swing, the shrieks, howls, yowls, and squeals perforated the peace of the place.
Hands over my ears to block the sounds for what felt like years, my frustration mounted. Stuck in the humid heat, the odor emanating from my unwashed body stinging my eyes, exhausted beyond memorable recognition, I wanted to shout. I wanted to scream. I wanted to sob.
Instead I laughed.
As the sun brightened the sky to a dim grey and the clouds became visible in the pale light, the noises dissipated. The raccoon party disbanded, presumably each to his own den and I emerged from my cocoon, wearied and worn but amused. I opened my grubby but mandated memoir of the disastrous affair, turned to the next open page and scribbled, “beautiful morning, but this sucks.”
hocscripsit 