Raging Hell Hole

We rolled up to The Raging Waters Resort in our van stuffed with kids and parents all possessing high hopes and grand expectations. This was our first mistake. The hotel looked decent online (because everything can look magical online), but once we got inside… it was giving big “Grandma’s guest room meets Blockbuster clearance aisle” energy. There were no glamor filters on the reality of this wreck.

We came for a birthday celebration with my kids aged 9 months to 12 years (yes, our family is a traveling sitcom). The waterpark was supposed to be the grand event. Our first bothersome encounter came when we met the front-desk manager. This woman was a straight-up tired, time‑traveler‑from‑1987, complete with outdated permed brown hair named Karen (no joke). Her first introduction was pleasant, but when we explained we had already paid online for everything, she explained it would be an additional $20 per person to get into the waterpark. Exasperated, with a twist of a homicidal fantasy, we plunked down the $140 and hoped it would be the last “surprise” fee.

What Karen failed to mention was that everything at the resort came with hidden fees. She also failed to mention their policy of allowing non‑resort locals into the waterpark. Not only was it overcrowded, but, as Karen informed us, it was apparently only open when the moon aligns with Mercury in retrograde. This was not mentioned on TripAdvisor. Karen informed us that we would be able to enjoy the water park today, but it would be closed for cleaning the following day. She pulled out a pamphlet from the desk and pointed to another section of their park, which offered mini-golf and ice cream. Could we make an entire day of that? We shrugged and figured we'd give it a shot. We prepaid for both days, and our family had a knack for turning lemons into lemonade. But today, our birthday girl got her wish, and we would be pool-bound just as soon as we were in our swimsuits. We lucked out with some birthday wishes because the indoor pool, slides, and crazy lazy river were indeed open today. What luck.

Stale from traveling six hours in our van, we finally got to our room and swapped our pajamas for swimsuits because we were ready to get our pool on. And that’s when we encountered what can only be described as - the world’s saddest hotel room. Room 417 held such promise as we traversed the brightly colored and meticulously clean hallway, but once we got inside, it reminded me of a 1970s divorcee starter kit — migraine‑inducing, counterintuitive patterned wallpaper and threadbare carpet which gave off a vibe best described as “beaten within inches of its life.” The toilet had apparently given up on the will to flush, the towel bar jumped off the wall like it was trying to escape, and I learned (the hard way) that I had to wait until midnight to shower because hot water is apparently a premium service offered only when the other guests are asleep. The smell was a potent mix of musty old basement and complete despair.

But hey, we’re parents. We push through. We’re resilient. We survived dial‑up internet — we can survive an outdated hotel room, right? Our children were initially taken aback, but their bar seemed to be set far lower than mine or my husband’s. The air‑conditioning unit screamed and spat out humid spit balls, leaving us with only two options: humid or hot.

I should mention, we came here to celebrate our daughter’s 6th birthday, and to say the stakes were high is a gross understatement. Have you seen a broken‑hearted 6‑year‑old? Neither had we until we checked into this version of the Bates Resort and Waterpark.

We tried to turn our sad frowns upside down and chug the lemonade we were forced to make from this colossal lemon. Finally dressed in our swim attire, we headed to the pool, ready to rid ourselves of the dismal room where we’d be lodging for the next 48 hours. But guess what? We were turned away at the waterpark gate because the park was at capacity. The folks inside were wise beyond their years. They opted to stay safe in their own homes and enjoy the waterpark without plunking down their hard‑earned cash at the resort. Love this journey for us.

After being forced to eat limp, lousy, overpriced hot dogs and nachos while we waited for clearance, we were finally allowed to “enjoy” the last two hours at the waterpark after a handful of locals decided to take themselves elsewhere, allowing the seven of us to enter.

Our nightmare continued as my keenly observant birthday girl called out “code brown” within 30 seconds of us dipping our bodies — and faces — into the cool, cerulean water. “Everyone out of the pool,” the apathetic lifeguard hollered. We hustled out and watched as a guy in red shorts and a pit‑stained tank top expertly lifted the turd from the bottom of the pool. It only took him one stroke to get the slippery little sucker. I had to wonder if he adds that to his résumé.

After waiting another thirty minutes, we re‑entered the shocked pool only to discover it wasn’t heated and smelled like it was trying to chemically alter the color of our swimsuits and eyeballs. We lasted 45 minutes before my vision blurred and my husband started to resemble my second cousin.

I had a smidge of hope left as we made our way to the lazy river and waterslides, which were in an entirely different body of water — a small blessing. But alas, this one was more like the “chaotic whirlpool of doom.” Kids were flying down slides, ramming into each other, and climbing up the slides like baby piglets at feeding time. When my toddler saw the slide, she squealed and begged to ride it. Not wanting to send her to an early watery grave, given the antics of the pool hooligans, I rode the slide with her in a feeble attempt to keep her safe.

I was genuinely surprised when the teenage lifeguard chose to berate me for sliding down with my small child. “Can’t you read signs? That slide is for little kids only!” she screamed. Um… she is little. That’s literally why I’m here — to make sure she doesn’t collide with any of the other undomesticated children. Think Lord of the Flies with floaties and poorly applied sunscreen.

It’s worth mentioning that she was the only guard who enforced any rules. The other “lifeguards” allowed the tomfoolery to run amok. I use the word “lifeguard” loosely because they all just stood around chatting like it was a poolside happy hour. But instead of cocktails, they whipped around their whistles tethered to ropes like it was a perk of the job.

Meanwhile, I was just trying to keep my kid and myself alive. There was nothing happy about my hour on the crazy, lazy river. I was dodging rogue children like it was a game of tag, and their parents were nowhere to be seen. I suppose I would ditch my children, too, if they behaved like a bunch of jackals.

Raging Waters felt more like an episode of Survivor. We left before they claimed our lives and headed back to our room, only wanting to wash up and go to bed. But Room 417 had more surprises in store. No one turned down any beds, nor did they put chocolate under our pillows. Instead, we got a front‑row table at an all‑you‑can‑eat bug buffet — and little did we know, our flesh was on the menu. There were bugs in the shower, bugs on the couch, and when my 12‑year‑old found an unidentifiable bug corpse under his pillow, I jumped right out of my skin.

Once I returned to my body, I shoved all our bed‑bug‑ridden belongings into the two measly laundry bags hanging in the closet. The irony was not lost on me. I questioned whether the sheets had ever been changed, let alone laundered. I wouldn’t even chance putting anything into our luggage. I had no idea how to sanitize our bevy of roller bags, and I wasn’t about to take any chances.

With our goods spilling out of the bags and three out of five children crying, I went to the office to demand… something. I wasn’t sure what, but I knew it would come to me as soon as I saw the manager’s pug‑resembling face. I’m not talking about the front end, either.

Guess who was home and sound asleep? You guessed it. Apparently, even Karen wouldn’t stay at this motel of mayhem. I did find a hero in disguise sleeping behind the desk. Once I jostled Olivia awake with my blood‑boiling anger mixed with panic, she explained she was only the night security, and all she could offer was another room.

I showed Olivia the slew of bug mugshots I snapped on my phone and begged for mercy. She invited me to get some sleep in another room and assured me Karen would “happily” take care of the issues in the morning. We switched to another questionable abode, but at least this one didn’t have extra creepy, crawly guests. When I met Karen the next morning, she told me she couldn’t offer any compensation because, and I quote, “she wasn’t a bug expert.” Ma’am. I didn’t ask you to do a TED Talk on entomology — I just wanted a refund because I did not want to pay for the corpse under my pillow.

At daybreak, we hauled butt out of that hellhole and put all our remaining hope on a good breakfast, which we figured would help erase our nightmarish experience at the Raging Waters (can it even be called?) Resort. We crammed ourselves and all our stuff back into our van. I took the wheel of this hot‑mess express while my husband Googled “breakfast nearby,” and let me just share: never trust the internet. According to his search, there was supposed to be a “charming and quaint breakfast nook” just down the road. After several attempts to locate this token of salvation in a God‑forsaken “resort” town, we realized that much like our spirits, it had been demolished. It had been turned into a haunted shell of capitalism. Gone. Like my hope.

So yeah. I spent a ton of money to feel itchy, exhausted, stressed, sad, chemically burned, and slightly haunted. But hey — the kids had fun. So… success.