Feisty Repartee

When a Good Idea...Goes Wrong

It all began innocently enough with the thought of a relaxing weekend in the picturesque Texas Hill Country along the clear water of the Blanco river. The plan was three days, a few friends, and some quiet time to enjoy a much anticipated book, meaningful conversation, and nature's beauty. A ladies' retreat, if you will, at a girls' camp which had been in continuous operation for fifty years. What could be better than that?

So, it was with great anticipation that I began, sometime last January, pitching the idea to a few close friends. Immediately on board was Sonnet (the names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent) a fellow attorney. She quickly recruited her best friend, a former catholic nun, who is now a professor of literature at a catholic university. We called her what Sonnet calls her: Holy Cow.

A few more phone calls and my friend, who is originally from New Orleans and a lawyer as well, Red, joined the group. Rounding out the quintet, was Bonsai, the New Yorker, world traveler, and fourth and final attorney. Four female attorneys and an ex-nun, sounds very much like the beginning of a bad joke...

We all checked our schedules and found an open date, the last weekend of April, first weekend of May. A flight was booked for Red, reservations at the ladies' retreat were made, and requests that we five be allowed to "bunk" together were noted. Of course, because my eleven year old daughter had been to this girls' camp the summer before, we consulted her as to what was the primo bunkhouse to request: Circle B deck.

Many e-mails and phone calls were exchanged in the months leading up to our retreat. Each had her own vision of what was to come. Mine, as noted earlier, was first and foremost a peaceful weekend to read, chat, go horseback riding, swim in the river or the pool, and just enjoy my friends and being outdoors.

Red flew in from Louisiana on a Thursday and we had a great evening catching up and finalizing our packing list for the next day's adventure. With the morning sun, Sonnet arrived with Bonsai and Holy Cow in tow. Check in was at 3:00 p.m., but we were told we could arrive early to unload and scope out our bunks.

We arrived at the ranch at noon, but once we pulled off the highway and onto the narrow dirt road which wove its way between the tall trees, it was hard to tell the time of day. Of course, I had been to the ranch before to drop off and pick up my older daughter for summer camp, but I had forgotten how beautiful and peaceful it was.

The ranch was set up with a main street of sorts with a General Store and meeting area next to the office in a strip mall type formation. Along the front there were wooden porches with rocking chairs to welcome visitors. Scattered around the premises, tucked into the woods along the river, and elsewhere were bunkhouses. Outside each structure was a huge firepit and picnic tables.

Without difficulty, we located Circle B Bunkhouse and the Deck. There were five or six sets of metal bunkbeds to sleep ten to twelve people in what appeared to be a room literally converted from a deck. Three sides of the deck were covered in floor to ceiling windows. The fourth wall was two thirds open to another room with dozens of bunkbeds in it. Downstairs housed the bathroom facilities.

We immediately chose our respective bunks. As the youngest of the group, I opted for a top bunk in the far corner and Red took the one under me. I tried it out for size and remember thinking at the time that bunkbeds were much bigger when I was a child. Sonnet and Holy Cow picked the next bunk, with Sonnet on top. Bonsai, the truly smart one of the quintet, took the third bunk in that row, unfurled her sleeping bag on the bottom and quickly put everything else she owned on the top bunk.

Happy that we had secured the best bunks on the deck, we set out to explore our new home for the next three days. The weather was warm with a slight breeze. We took one of the many hiking trails and this one led us straight to the river. It was beautiful. The sky, the water, and the air were all clear. Life was good. We sat on a pier constructed of mortared limestone that extended into the river ten feet or so and visited for a little while, then Sonnet requested we head to Wimberly in search of a little lunch and, with any luck, a catholic church.

Apparently, Sonnet's older sisters were due to visit in the coming weeks and they never miss mass. Sonnet began the first of many confessions and informed us it had been seventeen years since her last confession and she wanted to find a church to rectify that so she would be able to take communion with her sisters during their visit.

Our excursion to Wimberly was fruitful. We were able to secure lunch, do a little shopping, and found a catholic church with a Saturday confessional. Thank God! It appeared Sonnet's retreat was to be spiritual.

It was late in the afternoon when we returned to the ranch. Apparently, while we were out on reconnaissance, the masses had arrived. Every type of vehicle lined the small dirt road from the highway all the way to the bunkhouse. Cars, SUVs, and a couple of Hummers were "parked" here, there, and every which way. There was no order or rational thought to any of it. With great luck, we found a secluded spot to park and hiked back to the bunkhouse.

The change in the feel of the place was unsettling. There were women everywhere. There was one group of 50 women with big hair who were walking around in matching yellow t-shirts and flip-flops adorned with boa feathers, fake animal fur (think tiger and zebra), and holding beer with bottle coolers likewise embellished with the fake fur, mutilated boas, and cheap beads. I knew in an instant these were no ordinary women. These were Hoochie Mamas. I had heard about them before and had even caught a rare glimpse of one or two, but never, ever, in these numbers.

Thus, began our descent to hell.

When we returned to the deck of our bunkhouse, it was clear we had been invaded. More women, everywhere. Every flat surface was covered with bottles upon bottles of alcohol and every drink mixing paraphernalia known to man. Over on the bunk across the room from mine was what appeared to be a man with a mustache. One of the other women saw my perplexity and explained with a sly smile: Oh, that's Bob. He's our friend. I would later be enlighted that Bob was anatomically correct with at least one interchangeable body part. At which point I thought to myself: Oh, dear, things are so not improving.

Fighting a rising sense of hysteria, I suggested we return to the calmness of the river. The river was momentary refuge from the insidious chaos which had begun to envelop us. Momentary, indeed. With hoops and whistles the masses were gaining on us and within minutes they had us surrounded. It was the Hoochie Mamas, again. This time, they were without many clothes and parading around in what purported to be swimsuits, but by God, they had those damn decorated flip-flops on.

At some point I really believe women need to be honest with one another. When the silver slivers of stretch marks can be seen at twenty yards and the top of a string bikini cannot keep one's breasts from hanging down to one's knees and the whole visual experience is only one a drunken blind man could appreciate at a considerable distance, it really is time to give up the thought of swimming in public, even if there are only women around. If not, ladies, please think along these lines: artic wet suit. But, I digress.

The cacophony of shrill, high-pitched shrieks with which they communicated with one another registered in my brain with the sensitivity of King Kong playing a pair of giant cymbols. There was to be no respite for us, not that weekend, not with those women.

After dinner was served in the mess hall, the entire ranch was ablaze with bonfires at every bunkhouse. Surrounding the fires were women in camp chairs, mixing drinks, passing bottles, and telling stories, very loud stories.

While most everyone was outside, I abandoned my friends and decided to shower (or I attempted to shower); however, the facilities were designed with the small child in mind. No mirror was hung higher than the level of my chest, no sink quite reached the height of my hip, no commode was more than six inches from the floor, and no shower head was more than four inches higher than my navel. At least the water was hot and I was alone. A small blessing.

Somewhat refreshed, I retreated to my bunk, pulled out two books from favorite authors, and plugged in the headphones. I was just beginning the second book when my friends came in to retire for the evening. Red and Holy Cow made themselves as comfortable as they could and we all watched while Sonnet took fifteen full minutes to get into the top bunk of her bunkbed and then remember she had to pee. It only took her twenty minutes to figure out how to get down.

Bonsai, the world traveler, was by far the most prepared of our group. When it came time for her to retire, she first opened her little knapsack and procured a little white pill or two. If I had known what was in store for me, I would have prevailed upon her to share. She then changed her clothes, put something over her eyes and proceeded to wrap her head in some kind of long silk scarf. Blinded, she cocooned herself within her sleeping bag and other covers. Once settled she lay in the supine position with her arms crossed on her chest. Gazing upon her, I had the vision of her with a sceptor in one hand and a lilly in the other. She looked like some sort of goddess of death. At that point, I made a mental note never to travel with these people again and back to my book, I turned.

Around 2:00 a.m. I finished my second book as the rest of the deck/bunk mates began to stagger in because it was beginning to rain outside. Rest was not on their minds. Apparently, there was an entrepreneur among them who peddled sex toys with the poise and aplomb of a most accomplished tupperware lady. But, alas, these were no ladies. It was then that Bob's exisitence was fully understood.

Finally, the sales show concluded and it was light's out. I thought my education for the day had come to an end. I was wrong again. I learned one other thing before I tried to drift off to sleep: Drunk women snore like fucking chainsaws!

I think I was able to close my eyes for fifteen minutes before a cold front moved in and brought with it bright flashes of light and the monstrous clap of thunder. Unfortunately, despite the storm, I could still hear most of the women snoring.

When dawn finally broke, the storm had cleared and left behind broken limbs, cold winds, and my groggy head. I did not recall the last time I had been so absolutely, totally, and completely miserable.

A hot breakfast and three Diet Cokes were not enough to revive me from my misery. At that point, I decided there was but one thing to do: go home. Red was on board, but Sonnet and Holy Cow, having slept well, decided to stay. Thankfully, they had followed me in Sonnet's car. Bonsai was amiss. We retraced our steps and returned to the place we had last seen her and there she remained, still in the supine position with arms crossed on her chest. I was afraid we had lost her forever. However, with less than gentle encouragement we were able to rouse her from her coma-like state. Once awake, she decided to return home with us.

We learned days later that the weekend was not a total bust. Sonnet and Holy Cow managed to return to the catholic church. Three hours and two priests later, Sonnet had performed her confession and received absolution. However, her penance continues and she is on her second set of rosary beads.

In the last few months, we have had far more fun reminiscing about our retreat adventure than we actually did living it. I guess, memories are a lot like that, aren't they?

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