We thought we knew about wind. After all, we've lived in Suisun City for decades and endured year after year of gusts.
But this was different.
We found ourselves late at night, trying to sleep while also hoping that our tent wouldn't blow away. Huddled and shouting at each other.
But let's go back to the beginning of a medium-length story (about 650 words) about a couple, a camping trip and a cold, windy stretch of Northern California coast.
It began when friends at Mrs. Brad's workplace planned a camping trip for early September at Dillon Beach, near Tomales.
We have a history of camping, although we skipped it for several years after an unfortunate experience involving a mean raccoon, a bag of food, our two young sons, me hiding in the bottom of the sleeping bag and Mrs. Brad defending us with a tree branch. So we have the gear and experience.
It was the end of the week of a heat wave, when temperatures soared past 100 every day. Even Tomales, which is about 6 inches from the ocean, was reportedly hot – leading me to repeatedly use the phrase "hot Tomales" to describe our destination. We expected a break from the heat.
Then we arrived Friday evening. Tomales was like the set of a horror film, with waves of fog blowing across the road and scary organ music, although the music may have been inside my head.
The biggest problem? We only brought our hoodies – no coats and no headgear except our baseball caps. No problem. It would be nice.
Right?
It got colder. And windy. And windier. Putting up our tent was like wrestling with a rabid, nylon alligator. We scrambled to get our ice chest and backpacks in it to keep it from blowing away.
The wind died a bit and after sitting by the fire – made by Mrs. Brad's co-worker Joe, who had everything, including a big trailer, firewood and stakes we needed to borrow to anchor the aforementioned tent. Then we decided to go to bed. Then it began to blow harder.
Our tent, and this happened two nights in a row, was buffeted like a flag at Candlestick Park. It blew so hard and steadily that the tent looked like a shark fin. Or, as I described in the moment, "like Jimmy Neutron's hair." It would have blown away if it wasn't for our body weight.
"Are you sleeping yet?" Mrs. Brad yelled from 9 inches away.
"Not yet, but I'm tired," I shouted back, feeling my legs lift as the wind got under the tent.
We survived Friday night, then it happened again Saturday – after a sunless day spent huddled around the fire. (Note to self: Camp at least a mile from the ocean next time. Or bring a heavy coat.)
On Saturday night, Joe came out of his trailer and looked at our tent.
"Do you guys want me to pull my truck there to break the wind?" he shouted from somewhere out in the storm.
"No, we're fine," we both yelled, hoping we weren't airborne.
Joe ignored us and moved the truck, which managed to decrease the wind.
Somewhat. At least we could sleep, confident we wouldn't wake up somewhere in Oregon.
Ultimately, the gusts dropped to the normal Solano County summer evening – only 30 or 40 mph.
We survived.
Weekend report: We never saw the sun, survived a wind storm that would have defeated a lesser couple and we learned a valuable lesson: If our home ever gets damaged by a wind storm, we'll move into our tent, then call Joe and have him park his truck in front of it.
Oh, and we won't go to Tomales in September. At least without sandbags, parkas and safety parachutes, just in case we have to bail out of the tent from 1,500 feet.
Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.
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