It’s very hard to avoid when you live on an island nation, surrounded by sea and sand and summer expectations of sleeping on the floor of a tent snug and safe in your sleeping bag next to your sisters.
I was lucky enough to go camping with my family often and for extended periods. I’ve continued the tradition with the next generation - groups of families with kids of the same ages, who will hopefully do the same for their next generation (if there will be the opportunity for a next generation).
Woke in a fevered sweat last night on a mattress on the floor in the spare room, my heart jolting me conscious and the smell of the sea obvious even though the physical source was distant. I felt the scratchy grass under my back and neck, the weight of a body on top of me, and big hands around my throat doing their best to keep me from moving, while the voice was assuring me I was so ok. I was beautiful. I was worthy of worship.
How could that be true? He didn’t know me… I hadn’t even turned/
too soon.
