Rugby, the beach, fireworks, hot athletic women, meeting new people in hilarious and alcohol-tinged escapades... if Julie Andrews and I were
hanging around in lacy nightgowns talking about my favorite things, the list might go a little something like this.
But as much as I love Julie Andrews, that's not what I'm thinking about to distract me from a big scary thunderstorm. That list's more like my schedule of events from this past July 4th weekend.
A seven-hour drive, thirteen ruggers in a six-person hotel room three blocks from a beach in North Carolina, the "oldest and largest sevens rugby tournament in the United States," and a stream of alcoholic beverages as steady as the crashing of the waves on the sand. That, in a nutshell, is Cape Fear Sevens.
The weekend started off at the ungodly hour of 5am on July 4th. But though I might have been reluctant to leave my warm, cozy (and, might I add, double-occupancy) bed at an hour when even the birds were barely beginning to consider that perhaps it might begin to be morning soon, I had to admit that the timing was right when we arrived at Wrightsville Beach by noon with plenty of time to pull on bikinis, slather on some sunscreen, grab a cooler full of beer and enjoy the sand and the sun like the proper American citizens we are.
I must take a second here to mention how much I
love the beach. It's not often I get an opportunity to visit one, but when I do I can't help but gush over the beauty of a carpet of shells ground to a fine powder by the hypnotically mesmerizing repetition of beating buckets of salt water. And you'd better believe that we hit that beach every single day that we were down there, and that every time we were there I made it out into the ocean to play chicken with the cresting waves.
But one cannot live on beach alone (much as I'd like to try!), and after all, it was July the Fourth, the Day of Our Nation's Independence Celebration - and being as I haven't been in the country for the holiday for the past two summers, I couldn't wait for that seminal expression of what countless generations of patriotic American citizens have fought, bled, and died for: the freedom to ignite large, loud, colorful explosives in front of crowds of hot, sweaty people.
And oh, but friends, those fireworks were worth the wait. Though only Nuge and I were interested enough in our country's freedom to fight through the crowds to find a small square of sidewalk from which we could watch the show, instead of staying home and drinking by the hotel pool, we definitely felt that it was everyone else missing out on all the fun. It's been so long since I've gone to see a firework show, I forgot how fantastic they were - the explosions! the colors! the rockets that screech on the way up and the ones that sizzle on the way down! rainbow fireworks, red-white-and-blue fireworks, silver and gold and purple and green fireworks!
You can, I hope, forgive my mature, adult, twenty-two-year-old self for literally jumping up and down and clapping and laughing with glee.
The long traffic-jam home, followed by a joyful reunion of friends, beer, and splashy fun in the hotel pool rounded out my happy celebration of our Independence Day.
***
Saturday dawned on phone alarms and joking and the organizational acrobatics of thirteen girls with one bathroom. Eventually, however, everyone had successfully collected themselves and their kits and we headed off to the Cape Fear pitch, where the tournament coordinator (happily lurching about under a fisherman's hat and a boozey aura) directed us towards our first match. We kitted up, donned our warm-ups, and headed over.
Now, a quick word about our team uniforms: our usual jerseys are heavy, tough affairs, several sizes too large for just about anybody and as breathable as your average raincoat. Not ideal for a game which is essentially two seven-minute halves of sprinting in the Carolina heat. So on the way to the beach, a car full of teammates was dispatched to Target to pick up some nice, light, sleeveless tops - which they did, choosing a not-quite-eye-scarring shade of greenish-turquoise.
On the way to the register, however, they chanced to pass by the sale rack in the Outrageous department, and impulsively decided that we required warm-up jackets as well.
Short-sleeved, midriff-baring, zebra-lined, gold-accented, big-hooded warm-up jackets.
Which we all wore with the necessary accessories of sunglasses and acapella renditions of J Lo.
Representing the "Stingers From the Block" in the Women's Social division, we played "Whores R Us" (Savannah/Charleston) and won, then lost to the Raleigh Venom and the Hustlers. The team took a bit to gel - a lot of players who don't normally do sevens show up just for this tournament, so we hadn't exactly played together before - but we had some pretty nice plays, including a try by yours truly who managed to get the ball down in the try zone despite a rather speedy Hustler having caught up enough to get one hand in my waistband and the other on my collar.
Between our games, we guzzled water and Gatorade and wandered over to watch some of the excellent matches in the Women's Premier division. DC area represented with NOVA and the Furies, who were in turn matched against the Northeast territorial team, two USA developmental sides, and the Atlanta women. It is always a treat to be able to observe a field full of fit, talented, experienced athletes match their skills and speed against each other, and the games this weekend were no exception.
But let's be honest - Cape Fear is only somewhat about the rugby. The rest is about the socializing and the drinking. So we prepared for an evening of just that, lazing about on the beach, taking naps and showers and generally refueling. Our relaxed evening was only breifly interrupted by two of our teammates getting caught in the elevator and having to call 911 for a firetruck to come get them out.
It's perhaps one of my favorite scenes from the weekend: two of us hidden in the elevator, one (soberly and anxiously) standing on the street corner watching for the fire truck, the rest of us standing on the balcony, beers in hand, excitedly pointing out the flashing lights we'd just sighted a few blocks away.
After that, it was a typical long night of story-telling and making new friends to the tune of $2 beers, and the clock was reading well past midnight by the time we made it back to the room to crash three-to-a-bed to sleep. But come morning, we were up and at 'em again - after all, there were bagels to eat, teammates who came home at 7:30 am to tease, and most of all, rugby to be played.
Not that we seemed prepared for an intense day of athletic endeavor. The sunglasses were on, the zebra-striped hoods were up, and to call our warm-up half-hearted would be generous. By some coincidence of bracketing, we were playing Whores R Us for the second time, and they seemed determined to make up their loss of the day before: while we stood in a circle and lazily tossed around a ball, they ran opposed plays off of scrums and lineouts.
I've got to admit that in the first moments before stepping onto the pitch, I did not feel optimistic about our chances. But when the whistle blew, it was like a switch had been flipped, and we abruptly forgot that we were supposed to be tired and hungover and started doing what we do best: playing rugby. All our playing time together the day before finally paid off, and we started playing together like a team instead of seven individuals. We not only beat the Whores for a second time, but also kept them from scoring a single try of their own.
Walking back to our tent, warm-ups on and a teammate holding up speakers blaring "Move, Bitch, Get Out the Way," I did feel like a giant asshole, yes; but a try-scorin', ass-kickin', rugby playin' asshole.
Our momentum held up for the first half of our second game against Raleigh (which I did not play, since I was also feeling like a slightly concussed asshole who forgets that she ought not pull people down on top of her head in the tackle and whose vision has gone all spackled on one side), but by the second half it became obvious which was the better team. Raleigh's speedy wingers took advantage of our untidy, bunchy defensive line to run around the outside and score a bunch of tries.
After their win, Raleigh ended up in the final against the Hustlers (I swear there were six teams in our division, but we didn't ever see the other two). It was an exciting, close-fought match that displayed the skills of both teams, but the Hustlers clearly had a tighter, faster game, and swept in an excellent win before a crowd of cheering spectators.
Having finished with the rugby portion of our weekend, we said goodbye to those of us who had not been fortunate enough to get off work on Monday, tracked down some food and then went off to the beach again before we headed out to the NOVA house for more genial socializing.
The NOVA women, it turns out, had not been lazing about. They had gotten right into the business of partying, partially in celebration of someone's birthday but mostly just because that's what you do when you have a rugby house on the beach. We had dance parties and sing-a-longs and (as per the birthday girl's request) a drinking game to the Beep "http://coachingrugby.blogspot.com/2007/02/you-love-to-hate-it-beep-test.html">Test, which was simultaneously the most terrifying and most fantastic method of imbibing alochol that I have ever been fortunate enough to participate in.
Then, of course, it was out to the bar again. It's hard to pin down the best story of the evening - was it the over-enthusiastic 'cheers' that ended up with a smashed Corona bottle? The two girls who had hooked up the night before and studiously avoided each other all day collapsing on each other and then disappearing into the night for two hours? Our declaration that we would find a man for our single straight teammate, followed by her taking out a cute man with a British accent to the beach until 4 am? Or perhaps the local lesbian who showed up and practically went into shock to see the numbers of hot lesbians who had inexplicably shown up at her favorite beach bar, who of course twenty minutes later was my best friend? Or how she became the second hot girl of the evening to show up with (and make out with) someone else, but spend a good chunk of time flirting with me before insisting that we exchange phone numbers so we could maybe hang out again later?
And those are only the best stories.
Eventually, though, all good times must come to an end. Last call inevitably comes, beers must be finished, tabs closed, and beds (eventually) returned to.
Morning on Monday was a sluggish affair, as you may well imagine. But we managed to roll out of bed, rescue any remaining food in the room (all the alcohol was unsurprisingly already gone), and checkout of the hotel in time for a last few hours at the beach.
And then it was home again - home by way of Wawa and outlet shops, home slowly but surely. And by ten at night, I had returned, exhausted and salty with sand in places that sand really shouldn't be, but infinitely content.
