Where to begin? Last night, we arrived at the nest with wind gusts of thirty to forty miles per hour. Caroline burrito’d herself deep into her sleeping bag while I stood an unwanted vigil to the flap flap flap of our tent fly. Whenever I thought it was getting worse and the mad flapping accelerated, a brief respite would momentarily offer an absolute calm. In a quick second, where I had just enough time to tell myself that the worst was over, the freight train would plow right back into my ears. Flap flap flap would drum at five six seven beats a second. All I needed was a thirty-second pause in the vitriol of the wind’s lament so I might taste sleep. But as soon as the quiet returned, up in the trees, a whooshing sound arose to announce the re-approaching roar and another round of flap flap flap. The nest sits about six feet from the edge of a steep cliffside next to two large trees. The rain fly is tied down and secure; it is stretched taught, and still, the onslaught from the southeast tearing over the ocean three hundred feet below and racing up the cliffs pounds our temporary cocoon. The flapping becomes a staccato of nylon tent slaps. After a half-hour of this, I rest an arm on Caroline and speak her name over the growing noise; during a lull I hear the familiar sound of her sleeping breaths. I let her sleep, and I rolled over.

There’s a remote likelihood I fell asleep, but it was for moments that collectively could not amount to more than ten to fifteen minutes per hour. Around 11:00 p.m., the pauses in the wind became less frequent; when there was a short break, I recognized how accustomed I was becoming to the constant vibrations affecting the nest. I asked Caroline if she was having trouble sleeping, but my words fell on deaf ears, buffeted by the roar, whoosh, flapping, and howl of a storm that was becoming a gale. With each successive wave of hostility blowing down on us I entertained thoughts of what would the repercussions of the nest falling over be. What if the direction of the wind suddenly changed and was blowing us toward the ocean? Could one of these trees topple, and its root system dislodge the foundation of this hopefully firmly cemented nest? Sadly, an engineering study of this structure’s stability wasn’t attached to the frame for quick middle-of-the-night reference. Maybe the nest’s entire superstructure will act as a parasail, taking us aloft for a ride from six feet above the cliff side’s crest to sea level for some midnight surfing on the angry ocean. My mind reels through endless scenarios that the wind is none too shy to help facilitate.

I grab my headlamp and start inspecting tie-downs to ensure they are still holding fast. Then, a thorough look once or twice over the fly, looking for signs of ripping. This opens the question of what would be the likely situation if the fly were to rip to shreds exposing the flimsy tent to the full force of the storm. The tent is holding up perfectly so far. Then the rain starts in earnest at 1:30. It stops after a brief twenty or thirty minutes, but as it does, the wind takes on a new ferocity. My feet at the south end of the tent are being lifted and slightly bounced around, not enough to startle me, but this is curious. The sound is deafening; how does Caroline sleep? The tent that should be a foot from my face starts to make contact, slapping me as it is pushed in repeatedly by the wind. I roll over. Great, now the bladder joins the chorus of things keeping me from sleep. The wind bears down with renewed threat; the nest is vibrating like a tuning fork. The woven branches click and make increasingly worrisome noises that play to the imagination that the worst could happen. Once again, I inspect the tent and fly for damage, certain we are near the shredding point.

ROAR screams the blast of rushing air; we are in a gale. At 2:30, I reach out in earnest and stir Caroline from the depths of her sleeping bag to let her know I have to pee and that I’m having difficulties falling asleep. We agree we can’t open the tent and climb down the ladder into this maelstrom and dig in to try to sleep through this barrage – what else can we do? But now Caroline’s slumbering ignorance of the situation has been destroyed. After another half hour, Caroline reaches over, and with a near panic sound of urgency in her voice, she says, “We need to get out of here now,” and something about the Three Little Piggies and a Wolf at the fly. As quickly as she voiced her concern, a large gust pushed down so hard that our tent momentarily collapsed upon our faces, and for a second, I’m not sure if this was wind or the nest starting to break apart, the tent bounced back up as the wind-down throttles. I turned on our little hanging LED lantern, agreeing with emphasis that we needed to leave now. To be sure, there would be no doubt in our resolve; the wind pounded down a second time, wrapping us with a skin-tight layer of tent canvas and testing our fear of entanglement with a nylon straight jacket.

We put on what clothes we could and piled up everything else in the center of the tent, hoping to leave enough weight that we might still find the tent here in the light of day. Just this side of panic, we open the tent and brace ourselves as I start to open the rain fly. Ten wet steps down the ladder with only a headlamp lighting the blackness, thoughts that my rain gear will act as a kite are quickly put to rest as I reach terra firma. I need to focus my light on Caroline, who will climb down next; she attempts to zip up the tent, getting to the point of agitation as the wind whips the flapping materials, making finding the zippers difficult. She gets everything closed up and steps over the threshold and down a few steps before zipping shut the fly. We move as quickly as we can away from our cliffside adventure, feeling slightly defeated.

Ah, the discomfort of a cramped, cold car, yet we bask in the luxury of it. Even here, the wind continues to rattle us, but who cares? The heater is on, and I’m about to get some sleep.

Four hours later, we crawl out of the car and head for the lobby where we stop at the guest book and leave them an impression of our visit.

Next up, breakfast and then our departure for the long drive back to Phoenix, Arizona. This will quite possibly stand out as one of the greatest New Year’s adventures of our lives, offering us great views, unique lodging, thrills a minute, all the beautiful landscapes one might dream of, and non-stop fun. Thanks, Treebones, for a great ride into 2011.

With nearly 11 hours of driving required today, do we really have time for a walk on the beach in Morro Bay? Of course, we do. We’re John and Caroline Wise, and our middle names are Ocean-Junkies.