‘Forget Vegas, come to Ren Fair with us’

“Forget Vegas, come to Ren Fair with us.” – The Commodore

I was an hour out from Todd Mission when the GPS changed its course. All around me were fields circling roads without speed limits. The metropolis was now far behind. At this point in the trip, I accepted change and adapted accordingly. The fields gave way to sprawling ranches and trees that remembered a land without fences. I was not looking for sculpted paradise between the trees. I was headed to an event long-seen and little discussed. I sought those folks who left the world behind for three days in this unpredictable shift of seasons. My destination was the quasi-Woodstock campground of the Texas Renaissance Festival.

When I arrived, finding parking was easy enough, but finding my contact was not. Cell reception this far out is notoriously spotty, and I barely got in touch with him. With his mind occupied by the mist of festivities, he hastened me to scream, promising he would respond in kind and find me. After a few brief shouts of the word “bananas,” I heard a ram’s horn blow. I trudged forward and caught sight of The Commodore. A man of six foot something, the top half of which was most assuredly a pirate, the bottom half clad in a kilt with a sword on his hip and a horn in his hand. I asked him how his first night had been.

“I fell down drunk. That was a first,” he told me. This comment bears little weight to your average drinker, but The Commodore was a true sailor. Years spent on the high seas and in many foreign ports left him with an iron liver that only succumbed to the festivities of the Renaissance.

The Texas Renaissance Festival campgrounds were in an extensive field made navigable by landmarks and a series of dirt roads. While a good amount of  campers were family, we were not within eye or earshot of these grounds. We were a few hundred yards from the epicenter of the Renaissance campers—a massive bonfire from which the festival emanates in waves. The closer you get to the fire, the heavier your night. Even late in the afternoon, the air was thick with joy and fatigue. This was Saturday, Oct. 22, traditionally the height of any given themed weekend. This was no exception breaking records never seen before: 75,509 pirates attended, and a solid number of those attendees were camping.

The Commodore introduced us to the rest of his crew, a cavalcade of sailors all in agreeable nature and in various stages of intoxication. Their morning started with a sunrise and acid, and after meandering the Festival proper for a

few hours, they retreated to camp to prepare for Saturday night. The Sailors set up for the night in the sinking sun, hauling boxes and speakers from the nearby truck.

Without warning The Commodore turned and began to shout at the RV. He disappeared inside and emerged a moment later with a feathered rainbow on his shoulder. “This is Samba.” Samba was a Sun Conure. The Commodore phased his attention away from us and began singing Seal’s “Desert Rose” to her. The other Sailors busied themselves trying to untangle the cables for their sound system and DJ booth, a complicated art given their state of mind. After some assistance, dubstep remixes of Disney songs occupied the soundscape.

The Commodore returned, nodded and looked at the fire pit. I could see cogs turning, but where they were going I couldn’t say. He seemed lost in the ashes and half-burnt wood. He remembered there being a fire the night before, but now was a different sort of challenge. How to bring it back?

“What’s on your mind, Commodore?” I asked.

“He’s trying to remember how to be an Eagle Scout,” said one of the Sailors.

“I know how to start a fire,” The Commodore assured me. “It’s just a different process here.” He motioned to his brain. “There’s some charcoal somewhere on the ground. That would help. Can you see if there’s any charcoal around?”

I looked at The Commodore for a moment. “Of course,” I said, and turned to locate lighter fluid.

After the fire had been started, I was pulled to seek deeper waters.

Looking toward the darkened horizon, I could see the fireworks closing the Festival. Somewhere in that direction was the eye of this hurricane. Walking for a few minutes I finally saw it; 100 people, maybe more, sitting around a fire. Some silent, staring past the pit. Others jovial, chatting with each other. Meeting. Reuniting.

During the day, there was nothing special about it, but at night there was a sense of a sacred meeting place. I looked past the fire to the tiny hamlet that was “Call of Booty,” one of the largest pirate conclaves here tonight. These were the real veterans. They brought a gazebo of debauchery within reason, embracing the pirate democracy that existed in these fields tonight in a way that few other campers could. In a few hours, naked Jenga would start. Drink would be passed, laughs would be had, and everyone who watched had to play. After watching the crowd wax and wane, we headed back to the Sailors’ camp.

Settling in around the fire, I recalled Festivals of the past, only two of which did I actually go into the Festival. Every other time I stayed among the tents and fires, spending sleepless nights wandering from tent to tent, seeking friends and sharing stories and drinks with strangers. I recall accidentally stumbling into the bondage camp and realizing quickly why they always parked behind the tree line. I can still remember the smell of campfires and smoke, of sweat and rain, of escape and discovery. Sitting there now a decade hence, I was filled with nostalgia. But isn’t that the whole point of a Renaissance Festival? All the best parts, and making the worst parts seem worth it.

At some point, a man wearing nothing but a bearskin and a loincloth stopped to warm himself by our fire. He shared his rum, thanked us for the heat and continued toward a destination unknown. I should point out that in the dead of night it is almost impossible to remember where your camp is. For an event that sells you the idea that you can relive the past, the campgrounds were anything but that. Every night is something different, something new to be experienced. For those brave souls daring to stay the weekend, they would see the most of what this strange temporary world has to offer. I was just passing through, revisiting the past for one brief night. The Sailors, and thousands more like them, would survive this three-day haul and likely find a reason to return. The beauty of the campgrounds isn’t the drugs, alcohol or loud music. Those things can be found anywhere with little effort. The reason to attend, to camp and stay those nights, was to dig into something untapped and real: part frontier, part party, with good people and a thousand new friends. I have only given you a glimpse, the briefest night among many, of this true Renaissance Festival. Find yourself there, and in doing so you will find your own stories.