Family Vacations

How my children developed a life-long passion for travel

This is the second half of a two-part story about the summers my sister and I took my children on family vacations. I posted the first half of the story, entitled “Road Trip,” the end of July.

The weather in Myrtle Beach was picture-perfect, sunny and warm, with no hint of rain. We headed to the shore each morning and left when the tide rolled in late afternoon. Diane and I divided our time between sunbathing and playing in the ocean with my four children. To keep tabs on their whereabouts, I counted heads repeatedly and often: One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Then, one afternoon I counted: One, two, three–

Julie was nowhere to be seen.

I stood and surveyed the crowd. No sight of her. Diane and I hurried to the water, repeatedly shouting, “Julie! Julie!” Our frantic calls alerted two lifeguards. One stood on his elevated chair and scanned the ocean with binoculars. The other carried a rescue board to the water’s edge, watching for anyone flailing in the waves.

After telling the other three to stay seated on the blanket, Diane and I expanded our search in opposite directions. My feet sank in the sand as I patrolled the shore. Scrutinizing the beachgoers for any sign of my daughter, my eyes darted between the ocean waves and the crowded beach. The farther I walked, the more panicked I became: Where could she be?...why didn’t I keep a closer eye?....surely she’s okay...what if she got caught in the undertow?...this can’t be happening!…Julie, where ARE you?!

Then in the distance, I heard Diane call, “I found her! Julie’s okay. She’s with me.” Tears welled up as I ran in their direction. And there was my daughter, walking toward me with Diane by her side.

I gave her a fierce hug. “Oh, Julie! I was so worried! I thought you drowned! Where were you?”

She shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry. I was following a man with a metal detector. He walked a long way, but he didn’t find anything, so I hunted for sand crabs instead.”

Imagining the talking-to Diane already gave her, I exhaled a shaky breath. “Well, it’s okay. I’m just glad you’re safe. But promise me you won’t do that again. You can’t wander off without telling me where you’re going. You scared me to death.”

Julie sighed and rolled her eyes, apparently tired of all the fuss. “Alright, I promise. Next time I’ll tell you. But I wasn’t lost, just exploring.”

Our week at the ocean was drawing to a close. Up to that point, our evening meals were cooking hot dogs or “hobo” meals wrapped in tinfoil over a campfire. But Diane and I couldn’t leave the East Coast without indulging in fresh seafood. We decided one meal in a nice seafood restaurant wouldn’t break the budget.

With a bit of forethought, we could have avoided the drama that unfolded that evening. Our first misstep was forgetting the clock in the car was on Central, not Eastern Time. Our plan was to arrive early and avoid the dinner rush, but we showed up an hour too late. Seeing the long line of people snaking out the door, we should have left. Instead, we waited and baked in the unrelenting sun for what seemed like hours.

At long last, the hostess ushered us to a round table situated on the lowest level and centered in full view of diners seated in balconies overlooking the dining area below. The restaurant was more upscale than expected, with tables draped in white tablecloths and set with fine china and crystal glassware. Vases filled with fresh flowers served as centerpieces.

My children were agog. This was their first time eating in a fancy restaurant, and it showed. In animated voices, they wondered why they had two forks. The cloth napkins puzzled them, as did the wine glasses. Our table quickly drew the attention of other diners. Diane and I tried to enforce rules of proper dining etiquette, but ended up laughing at their excitement rather than curtailing their natural curiosity.

When the waitress finally came, the kids all ordered chicken instead of seafood. Overtired after a day at the beach, they whined and fidgeted as we waited for the food to arrive. I didn’t blame them; the restaurant was full and the service was slow. By the time our meals arrived, it was getting late.

Diane pointed to the clock on the wall and said, “Look at the time. It’s after nine. The park closes at 10:00 and it will take at least a half hour to drive back. We need to hurry.”

I announced, “Okay guys, listen up. Eat as fast as you can. If we don’t get back before the park closes, we won’t get to our campsite until morning.”

After waiting hours to eat, now the rush was on. Julie picked at her food, then pushed her plate away. Eric dawdled over his meal. Cherie and Chad needed help cutting their chicken. With time running short, we left meals partially eaten, paid our bill, and exited the restaurant. As we hustled the kids to the car, Eric said, “Diane should drive. She drives faster.”

Following Eric’s suggestion, Diane took the wheel and wove in and out of traffic, exceeding the speed limit. Several times she drove through yellow-turning-red traffic lights. Eyes wide, Julie asked, “Aren’t you supposed to stop when the light is yellow?”

Diane laughed. “Didn’t you know? Yellow is called the ‘speed-up zone’.”

Turning to face the kids, I shook my head in mock dismay and said, “What do you all think? Does a yellow light mean ‘go faster’?” A chorus of giggles erupted from the rear of the car.

Diane’s driving did the trick. We made it to the park’s entrance with just minutes to spare. Whenever we were in a time crunch during vacations that followed, one of the four would invariably shout, “Let Diane drive!” and the others would chime in, “Yeah, let Diane drive. She gets us there fast!” A yellow traffic light is still jokingly called “the speed-up zone” in our family.

After a week at Myrtle Beach, we dipped our toes in the Atlantic Ocean one last time, then made the two-day journey home. When we pulled in the driveway, Mom adopted an “I told you so” grin after seeing two folded chairs strapped to the cartop carrier. She was right; reading at the campsite required lounge chairs. We didn’t tell Dad about driving in the median to avoid causing a car accident or sleeping on the roadside in the rain. Those were stories for a later telling.

After that wildly successful trip, we were eager to repeat the experience. Each winter, we gathered around a U.S. map and chose our destination for the following year. One summer, we travelled to Colorado to view the Rockies before driving north to explore Yellowstone Park. Another year, we camped in a county park near Washington D.C. and toured free historic sites and museums. A three-week trek to the West Coast included sight-seeing in San Francisco, camping in the Redwood National Park, and driving up the coast to survey the aftermath of the Mount St. Helens volcano. And our love of Myrtle Beach brought us back to our favorite vacation spot one more time.

In preparation for each trip, Diane and I ordered AAA Triptiks that outlined our route on custom-made maps, providing detailed information on rest stops, gas stations, food, and lodging. We packed milk and individual cereal boxes or donuts for breakfast, and occasionally stopped for lunch at the Golden Arches to break up the monotony of eating one more peanut butter sandwich. Diane and I established a couple hard-and-fast rules while on the road: everyone wears flip-flops to speed up exiting from the car, and we all try to go to the bathroom at every stop, no exception.

Cramped quarters in the car inevitably led to squabbling. Eventually I laid down the law, yelling toward the back, “No more hitting! Everyone sit on your hands!” They complied, but resorted to butting each other with their shoulders. Cranking up the radio helped divert their attention to singing the top 40 hits of artists: The Bee Gees, Rick Springfield, Billy Joel, Air Supply, Donna Summer. The single “Who Can It Be Now,” by Men at Work is forever imprinted in our collective memory. We sang that song at the top of our lungs as we rode through the desert on our way west in the summer of 1981.

Driving long hours was preferable to spending an additional day on the road. With everyone stuffed into tight spaces, the quicker we got to our destination, the sooner the vacation could begin. We played road games to pass the time, including each person choosing a car color and competing to see who tallied the most cars, or being the first to spot the most cows. “Slug bug red, no slug bug back” became an ongoing refrain every time a Volkswagen Beetle came into view. At times we made up stories about unsuspecting family members as their car passed by. The more fantastical the story, the louder the laughter.

Our budget was tight. Purchasing trinkets at gift shops was out of the question, but each summer my kids happily took home a souvenir T-shirt. We didn’t fall for overpriced tourist gimmicks that claimed “The World’s Largest!” or “Must See!” We didn’t visit expensive theme parks like Disney World or Six Flags. Instead, we explored oceans, mountains, glacier-fed streams, forests, and rivers for free. My children learned that time spent in nature expanded the imagination and stimulated curiosity without needing to be entertained.

After five summers, Diane’s marriage ended our free-wheeling vacations. Traveling without her wouldn’t have been the same; she was an essential family member on our journeys. Our trips with her became grand adventures, filled with humor and spontaneity.

Although we were sad to see them end, those vacations made a lasting impact. They revealed a world beyond the borders of our small town. I set aside day-to-day worries for the duration of the trip. My children developed a life-long passion for travel. Diane and I bonded as sisters and became best friends. And I realized that if I had the courage to take four young children across the country in a Pinto station wagon, I could travel to unknown destinations and explore new opportunities on my own without fear.