When I was in the second grade, we bought an aqua double cab Dodge from a guy whose oilfield gang used to ride in it. We pulled a pop-up camper behind the truck.
We especially enjoyed vacationing on the southwest Louisiana coast in places like Cameron, Holly Beach, and Johnson's Bayou. One day at Holly Beach, we all swam further out into the Gulf of Mexico than ever. We played, bobbing up and down as the big waves rolled in. A storm blew up.
By the time we made it to shore it was raining. We quickly dressed and stepped out to pop the tent down. Waves rolled in around our feet, between six inches and a foot of ebb and flow. We popped the camper down and hooked it to the truck, hoping that the wheels would pull us through the wet sand.
The truck surged forward in the driving rain. We made it to the houses on stilts at the town of Holly Beach. Mom said, "Is everything all right with the camper?"
Dad looked back and said, "It's gone."
Mom said, "Scotty, you're kidding."
He said, "No. It's gone." He got out and trotted back down the beach with mom accompanying. My brother and I waited in the truck, cold and scared. Eventually we saw Dad and Mom dragging the camper through the rain.
We never camped in it again.