Traveling isn’t columnist John Moore’s favorite activity. He’s pictured here with his father on a camping trip circa 1966. Photo: John Moore

Bruce Willis ad libbed a line in Die Hard that struck a chord with me.

No, not the “Yipee Ki-Yay,” line. I think that was actually in the script.

It was the, “Come out to the coast. We’ll get together. Have some laughs,” quote. Willis made that line up. It seems to be the personification of me trying to take vacations.

Traveling has always been one big calamity for me. Even when I was a kid.

For six months prior to when my parents took us to Disney World after in opened in the early 1970s, I bragged to everyone who would listen that I was going underwater on the 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea ride.

It was going to be great. I’d be just like Captain Nemo and be on a real submarine and see everything he’d seen.

Except, after we arrived and I made a beeline to the exhibit, I was greeted by a big sign that said, “Closed for Maintenance.”

I had to settle for Cinderella’s Castle. Let me tell ya, that wasn’t going to go over with my buddies back home, and I knew it.

Camping has held similar experiences for me. My mom was the only one who ever liked camping. Along with dad and my sister, I would have rather been hung upside down over a fire and had sticker burrs fired into my skin than go out into the woods to sleep in a tent. But since mom liked it, we went.

It was always just as I expected, only most of the time it was worse.

On one particular visit to Camp Albert Pike, the water in the river was clear and beautiful, so we went swimming. I got so sunburned on the first day that I had to sleep sitting up in the back of my mom’s Buick so that my second-degree blisters didn’t touch anything.

This is how I spent the last four days of the trip.

I’ve never quite understood camping. Humans spent thousands of years trying to make a life outside of the woods and away from biting insects, snakes, and second-degree blisters, yet we spend a lot of money trying to use up all of our days off going back into the woods.

After I married, my wife insisted we take the kids (who were little) to Camp Albert Pike. On the first night a sudden and severe thunderstorm dumped so much water on us that the tent caved in on top of us.

After tossing the children into the minivan and shoving a wadded up wet tent on top of them, we drove back to my parents’ house, where we spent the evening discussing the time I’d gotten second-degree blisters at Camp Albert Pike.

Notice the trend of the mom’s being the ones who want to go camping?

Then there was the trip to Southern California when I went to LA and back, but my luggage didn’t. Bye, Bye, stuff.

When our grandchildren were young, we were heading to Virginia to go see them, but I decided since I couldn’t trust the airlines not to lose my luggage that we’d rent a car and drive out there.

You know that overpriced rental car insurance they always try and sell you? Well, I didn’t buy it. Some guy in a large truck demolished the rental car while I was inside of a sandwich shop.

The money for the excursions we had set aside for the grandkids went to compensate the dealership for the Prius that had been customized by a hit-and-run Virginia redneck.

We spent that time in Virginia reminiscing about the time I missed going to Disney to ride the 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea ride; the time I slept sitting up in the back of my mom’s Buick with second-degree blisters; the time we shoved a wet tent on top of the kids; the time the airline in California lost my luggage; and whether I’d get stopped by a cop on the way home with a Prius that no longer looked roadworthy.

I didn’t get stopped by a cop on the way home, but a later trip to Washington, D.C., almost included law enforcement when the lady next to me on the airplane went off on a stewardess about missing her connecting flight.

Fortunately, the crew on the plane reacted quickly and moved the lady to the front of the plane, where she continued to make a scene.

So much for flying the friendly skies.

Vacation season is coming up. I’ve decided to buy a Buick, drive into the woods, and sleep in the back seat; sans the second-degree blisters. The grandkids have a DVD player. I’ll take 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea with me to watch.

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By John Moore | thecountrywriter.com