The Great Government Shutdown Outlaw Adventure

By Steve Stoeckel

When I hear the words “government shutdown,” I get a warm and fuzzy feeling inside. And here is why.

The Spongetones were playing in Morehead City NC at an outdoor festival in 1990, and it occurred to Jamie and me that we were a mere ferry ride from an Outer Banks camping and fishing trip. So, after the gig we offloaded the equipment and took my 4WD Isuzu Trooper on what was to be the best beach adventure ever.

We spent the night at the cheap hotel near the ferry landing and boarded the next morning, arriving at Cape Hatteras by noon. The Cape Point campground was empty, and the entrance was chained; the federal government, we found out, had shut down over a failure to pass a budget. As we pondered what kind of fishing bait a filleted congressman would make, Jamie and I set out to find lodgings. We were too late.

Every private campground and motel was full. “Looks like you boys goan have to head back home,” the guy at the gas station said. We drove north up highway 12 awhile. I spotted a jeep ramp and told Jamie we were not leaving, motel or no motel. I drove down the beach a few miles and parked right near the shoreline.

We got the fishing gear out and spent the afternoon with some success. After a fine dinner cooked over the gas stove, we watched the stars come out and finally put the air mattresses out right next to the high tide line. As I went to sleep listening to the ocean closer that I ever had before, I began to think this had worked out just perfectly.

It was around 3 AM that I woke with a flashlight in my face. I could make out a ranger hat beyond the light, and the Trained Voice of Authority spoke.

‘No sleeping on the beach, guys,” it said. I blinked and tried to focus.

“We’re fishing,” I said, looking in the dark to where I thought our poles were still in their holders.

“Nope. Looks like sleeping,” the voice said. “Carries a fine.” I allowed that there were no places to stay on the island. The voice told us to move and that he’d better not find us there again, and drove south down the beach.

So, the US government had shut down and sent everyone home, and here was one last Barney-effing Fife working WITHOUT PAY to keep his beach safe from the communist, terrorist horde that was sure to invade. I watched his taillights bobble down the beach and, after a fusillade of cursing I turned to Jamie and said “We. Are. Not. Leaving.”

I spotted a tall dune in the dark between the beach and the main dune line, just big enough to hide my truck and a tent. I threw the fishing poles in the back and turned the truck around. We saw the ranger’s tail lights blink, and Jamie yelled “He’s coming back, he’s coming back,” and grabbed both air mattresses and dragged them across the sand, running crouched like a Marine taking a beachhead. We stayed behind the dune until he passed, and pitched the tent behind the dune.

And there we stayed for four glorious days, swimming and fishing all day, eating and drinking at night. We took our beach chairs to the top of our dune one memorable night, and after polishing off an entire bottle of brandy and a six pack of beer, played guitars and sang every song we knew at the top of our lungs, all punctuated with intervals of lunatic laughter and soft spills from the low chairs onto the cool sand. We were harmless crazy, and I’ve not been that way since that night.

We also stank—something we didn’t find out until we got home. After discovering that soap doesn’t lather in the ocean, we gave up on any pretense of bathing or shaving. We were living the Golding life, and since we couldn’t smell each other, we were just fine, thank you. I remember vividly my wife’s reaction upon seeing me—the shudder that comes when inhaling ammonia or swamp gas.

But we drove home happy and exhausted, convinced that we’d had the best, outlawest beach trip in history, which is yet to be disproved.

And that is why Linda, Jamie’s wife, said when we were leaving for Nashville last Friday on the day of a possible government shutdown, ‘You boys need to go camping.”

-Steve Stoeckel
Copyright 2011