Day 5, 1-19-2011

The thing that both of us have been super nervous about ever since buying the RV is dumping our gray (sink) and black (toilet) water tanks. Of course, we could always go the way of DMB (Dave Matthew's Band) and dump it through grated bridges as they did a few years back in Chicago. But they ended up dumping on a boat full of tourists, so we've learned from their mistake. Plus, nothing we can dump will be as cool sounding as DMBBM.

That said, we have been really careful about dumping our waste, or have tried to be the two times we did it prior to this trip. We have watched other RV owners with crazy expensive units that are equipped with mechanical dumping stations spray their DNA across campgrounds, and we have sworn that we would never drip more than a drop. Easier said than done. Before dealing with the flat tire, Ward went out to dump the tank. He got the drain pipe ready, pulled on his long rubber gloves, and unscrewed the main cap. Usually when this cap is removed, a little bit of liquid drips out, but this stream was heavy and showed no signs of stopping. He put the cap back on, and assessed the situation: wet toilet paper and old urine in a sizable pond under the RV. The smell was strong. He called for Stephanie, and she came out. “Man, it stinks pretty bad” she noted while Ward tried to subtly signal for her to keep a low profile. “Shhh! We've leaked all over the place!” “Oh shit! What do we do?!?” The first thing was a identify the problem, which was the release valve having been blocked from closing completely the last time we dumped. In October. There was nothing to hold back our waste once the cap came off. So Ward grabbed the drain pipe, twisted the cap off, and struggled to get the pipe to fit. Needless to say, it was lucky that he was wearing flip-flops, though he wasn't sure of that immediately.

Somehow we finished this dirty task right as our “family” friends returned from breakfast, and as we were trying to clean up from our mini-disaster, the woman walked over to ask us if we wanted Fix-A-Flat. We think they left camp to pick it up. We had to resist any social pressure to accept her offer, both because we really wanted to figure out our tire problem, not just mask it, and because we didn't want her to stick around long enough to ask us about the yellow pulpy mess under our RV. So Ward ran off to the showers and Steph readied the RV to drive.

The small bio-hazard and our neighbors being a good reason to drive on the flat tire, we pulled around to the Salt Spring parking lot to change our tire in a clean, quiet area. Though we have both change car tires before, the RV was a little different, and the jack we had didn't come close to reaching the frame. We ended up heading back to the main camp and asking some men in the camp woodshop for advice. Advice turned into them taking over the whole process, jacking up the RV on the axle and bringing the tire to Richard (known throughout the camp as the guy with the air compressor) to pump it up. As we were waiting for the pump to get the tire up to snuff, Richard told us that the compressor use to be used for putting pressure in beer vats. This was a perfect set up for Ward's first old man joke of the trip: “Hmmm, I don't know about that, but I do know how to relieve the pressure in one of those.” The change after their laughter wasn't distinct, but we definitely felt more at ease with these experienced “campers” after that.

After our tire was fixed, we each swam in the Salt Spings. It was only about 55 degrees out, but the Salt Spring stays at a constant 72 degrees throughout the year. It took a little convincing to take the plunge in such chilly weather, but we're glad we did. Mike had loaned us a mask and snorkel, and we took turns swimming around with the mullets and bass. It was hard to get out, both because of the drop in temperature and the beauty of the water. Ward took a sample taste of the water, and while it wasn't bad, he also wasn't sure of it's healing properties.

Later that night, after parking in Keith's gated back yard in Gainesville and eating a great dinner, we went to The Top for a drink and to wait for Senta to get off work. We were the only three in their outside area besides a man reading a book by the fire pit, so when a random guy walked out with two shots of tequila, looked at us, then over to the reader, then back to us before putting the shots down at our table and telling us to wait, Stephanie and Ward assumed that he was a friend of Keith's. But Keith had no idea who he was. He returned with three shots, called over the reader, and said that they were on him. Ward borrowed a great toast from Paul Micou, as best as he could remember: “There are poker chips, and there are tortilla chips, but the best chips of all are friendchips.” Royce, our new friend, ended up buying us another 3 rounds before we went across the street to The Atlantic for dance night. Royce followed us, and everyone there assumed he was an old friend of ours. We found out over the next few days in Gainesville that this might not have been in our favor. Basically, it boiled down to this: “Who was that friend of yours? He tried to not pay for a beer, got thrown out of The Atlantic, followed us home to a small party, and finally got kicked out of there when, told he couldn't sleep in the bed of the guy who lived there, complained 'Well where the hell am I supposed to sleep?!?'” We don't know what happened to our friend, but we have his address and look forward to sending him a postcard from two people he might not remember meeting.