I was making my way back home to the Pacific Northwest after a grueling year at college. I had just driven over 700 miles from waking up on the side of a dirt road in rural Nevada and driving through Reno/Lake Tahoe on my way overland through the beautiful Sierra Nevadas. My destination? Gold Bluffs Beach, California.

I had never been to this particular state park but it was right near Redwood National Park. In my perpetual poor planning, I had only scribbled down a few instructions off the net about how to find this beach once I got there. What had been a sunny clear day in the mountains had turned foggy, rainy and well past sundown by the time I was nearing Crescent City -- not exactly the kind of weather to be camping in.

I eventually found the obscure logging road to the beach and was puzzled why I was climbing rather than descending. Just over the crest of the hill and shrouded in the spooky rainforest, I encountered a gate blocking the road. Too dark to safely back up and too tired to attempt to find another spot to camp, I parked my truck and grabbed my gear.

After about a mile of hiking in the rain with only my headlamp to guide me, I spotted the beach through the trees and made my way out onto the sand. Barely able to smile over seeing and hearing the ocean I deeply missed in the 9 months prior, soaked from the now wind-blown rain, I went about setting camp.

Thankfully my tent went together without any hitches even despite a pretty gusty wind. With the fly firmly in place and my Jake's corners in for extra stability, I crawled into my down mummy bag and had a very welcomed long sleep to the sound of the booming surf. It wasn't until the following morning how stupid (or lucky) I had been depending on how you look at it.

I woke to the sound of not only the surf but of my vesibule flapping loudly against the side of the tent. Sitting up I suddenly realized why it had come loose.

At some point in the night, the breakers rolling in had been lapping at my doorstep. My hiking boots were gone and the once reasonably secure pegs holding the vestibule had been eroded out of their holds and I was now sitting, like a washed up object, amidst a thick line of seaweed that stretched from horizon to horizon down the sunlit beach.

The bright orange and yellow of my expedition fly must have seemed obvious that an amateur beach-camper was in charge and as I emerged in shock, I turned around to face the land behind me and a plethora of neighbor's tents tucked nicely in the dune grass well above the high tide line.

After finding my soaked boots among the sea weed, dismantled my tent and took off before anyone much saw what an idiot I had been.

In the end, looking back though, my prized Sierra Designs tent not only kept the wind and the rain out but the entire Pacific Ocean as well. There wasn't a single drop of water in my tent when I woke up. It saved the day. Thank you Sierra Designs for making great quality products and for reading my story.

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