If you’ve ever wondered what it’d be like to vacation in a post-apocalyptic landfill run by people who watched Green Acres and said,“Hold my beer,” then Kim’s Marina& RV Resort is the place for you.
We pulled in at 1:30PM—our assigned site already occupied by another camper who kindly apologized. The staff, however, offered nothing. No sorry, no heads-up, no water, no shade. Just a“shrug emoji” in human form. Their own check-in pamphlet said checkout was at 2PM—so why hand us a site that still had a family fully plugged in and grilling hot dogs?
Meanwhile, my 76-year-old mother (who confirmed the day before that her cabin would be ready at 1:30) was treated like a burden every time she asked if her room was ready. FIVE times she asked. They didn’t even start cleaning it until 2:40. It was 100 degrees. She waited in that heat like a forgotten prop in a bad country western, and when they finally let her in, the bed was bare and they told her,“Oh—you still need bedding.” Like it was a lemonade stand, not a paid rental cabin.
The grounds? Picture a campground that moonlights as a junkyard. Dog poop was everywhere. It was like a minefield from the moment you stepped out of your camper to the joke they call a“beach.” And the dogs? Off-leash, wild, and no one batted an eye.
The plumbing situation? Grab your hazmat suit. The water spigots looked like they were salvaged from a scrapyard, half-stripped, leaking like crazy, and—you guessed it—pooling water under the electric hookups. One sewer cap shot off like a geyser when I touched it. I wouldn’t wash a lawnmower with this setup, let alone plug in my rig.
The roads were a combo of gravel, pothole dirt, and vague paved patches—but folks sped through it like NASCAR tryouts. No speed limit signs. No enforcement. Just kids on bikes diving for cover.
The “beach” for kids? There were broken signs with rusted nails still sticking out of them. Nothing says “family memories” like a tetanus shot.
Bathrooms? Closed when we arrived. When they did open, it smelled like something had crawled into the plumbing and lost its will to live. Didn’t even risk a shower—especially since you have to PAY for one on top of your already steep site fee. Pay to shower in your own stink? Pass.
Now let’s talk about the nightmare fuel they call a laundry room. Clean and dirty laundry were stacked everywhere like someone gave up mid-fold. It looked like a middle school lost-and-found exploded. Vomit in the utility sink. I wish I was kidding. ONE washer worked, and TWO dryers were broken. Not that it mattered—the pile of abandoned linens made it impossible to find space anyway.
Oh, and the staff? If the dress code was“backwoods buffet with a side of resentment,” they nailed it. Rude, grunting, eye-rolling, dismissive. One guy looked like he’d used his shirt as a napkin from breakfast through dinner and capped it off with ripped jean shorts straight outta 1987. Customer service was nonexistent, but judgment? Flowing like that busted water spigot.
Trash? Overflowed all weekend. Piled up 15 feet high and smelled like the opening scene of a horror movie. At night, I wasn’t sure if I heard raccoons or zombies.
We booked 5 nights. We stayed 5 nights. But if we didn’t have family with us, we would’ve packed up and peeled out of there after night one.
Bottom line: Kim’s is not a“resort.” It’s a rotting relic held together by duct tape, fumes, and apathy. The only thing elite here is how fast you’ll want to burn your shoes when you leave.
Never again. Not if it was free. Not if you paid me. Absolute disgrace.
