DON'T BOTHER ME, I'M CRABBY!

Whoever coined that was obviously a sophisticated, citified woman who had just experienced her very first weekend ever 'camping'. It wasn't such a crazy idea (my friends told me after they stopped laughing), it was only May, no bugs yet, and the cause was noble - volunteering for the official annual Horseshoe crab census count under the full moon in Cape Henlopen, Delaware. The crabs have been around 350 million years; it remained to be seen if I could survive two days.

Rule #1: Think twice before testing the great outdoors with a buff Nordic companion, no matter how cute he is. We were driving a van - not like a delivery van as I had feared, but a large, plush one, big enough to hold all our supplies and equipment; enough for Army maneuvers, in fact. I don't understand why he seemed genuinely puzzled that my belongings did not fit neatly into a backpack. Along with all the required gear, a girl still needs her pillow, chair, Starbucks, sleeping bag with built-in magnifying mirror and Chanel flip-flops, right?

It rained the entire day of the drive up to Delaware. But, being the perfect party planner, I had called ahead to verify that there were rooms available in Lewes as an alternative to a wet tent, which for any sane person is not an option. His alternative: Sleep in the van, of course! Since I’d never even made out in the back seat of a vehicle in high school, I certainly wasn't about to spend the night in one now. But as we sped right by the B&B's, me waving wistfully out the back window and choking up with grief as they disappeared into the horizon, I realized my fate was sealed.

It was actually pretty cozy after we set it all up - the equipment was in the wet tent, we in the cushy, dry van. With soft music, the light of the moon through the trees, it was the Ritz Carlton by comparison. It's all relative as they say. I was with a true Viking to whom the great outdoors was second nature; or probably first nature; to him, a civilized hotel is unworthy, what with all those annoying man-made conveniences like bed linens, hair dryers, and room service. I assumed I was in good hands.

That night, we embarked on our first 'stroll to the beach' maneuver, in the pitch dark, along a wooded trail, with rustling in the forest that I just knew came from bears and coiled snakes. We plodded on....and on....and on, my feet killing me, begging to turn back, whining that I was still 'in training' – until we were finally stopped by a Do Not Enter, Secure Area barrier. Whew! Now we could go back. Not! Like a dutiful girl scout, I halted but the warrior leapt over the barricade and disappeared into the black never-neverland, for what seemed like hours. So I took a much needed rest. We finally reconnoitered for the trek back, only to get lost amongst giant sand dunes, like Moses in the desert, wandering around, no water, no manna from heaven, no map. I never thought I'd be so elated to see a campsite.

The next day was another exercise, this time covering the entire length of the beach, sun blazing, perfect sky, with my 'Get in shape' sergeant by my side. (I kept insisting "Round IS a shape!", to no avail.) The Horseshoe crabs had obviously been on just such a forced march and were found dead where they collapsed, unable to make it all the way to the end of the Point. I wanted to join them. But I trudged and waddled to the end and back, where Harald the Horrible had jogged ahead in perfect form and settled in to await my eventual return.

The food was delicious, especially the lamb steaks which he grilled to perfection. Tip of the day: Don't eat meat on a camping trip if you're not used to it. Fortunately, the public bathroom was within sprinting distance and remained my best friend for most of the day. I decided not to further test my system, so while he sipped Pinot, I guzzled Canada Dry. Little did I know that meant I would have to drive the van. What? I'm 5'3"; how am I supposed to conduct a locomotive? My panic reared its ugly head but the choice was made clear: either drive or walk. (Note to self: Next time (ha!) just say "Yes Dear", then shoot him.) I finally decided it was preferable to risk our lives with me driving than try to hoof it yet several more miles at night and become roadkill. I pity the driver behind me as I zig-zagged the giant tank down the dark road, but we finally made it to the crab census in one piece.

Although there were zero, count ‘em, zero live, spawning Horseshoe crabs to count because of a recent storm, the event was unique and serene, the lighthouse twinkled and beamed, and we twinkled and beamed back. Remarkably, even the dead horseshoes were an awe-inspiring sight, like little slain knights in shining armor scattered across a battlefield.

Would I do it again? Perhaps, armed with experience, imodium and relationship-training. There's a lot to be said for a taste now and then of the simpler life, where nature rules, and the sight of giant campers skulking silently by their campsites is preferable to the cacophony of the city and traffic jams. And I’d know next time to slip a sedative into my companion's drink upon arrival.