Road Trip
Two adults and four kids traveling 1250 miles in a Pinto station wagon. What could possibly go wrong?
This is the first half of a two-part story about the summer my sister and I took my children on our first family vacation after my divorce. The second half of the story to follow soon.
Summer 1978
I sold my wedding ring in May. After languishing in my dresser drawer for a year, the ring no longer held sentimental value. Nevertheless, the diamond was worth something, so I sold it and put the money toward the promise of fun–a summer vacation.
My sister Diane and I had lasting memories of family vacations taken every July, trips alternating between Colorado, where Mom grew up, and the East Coast, where Dad’s only brother lived. We wanted to provide equally memorable adventures for my children. Cherie and Chad were now four, Eric five, and Julie seven—old enough to travel.
Diane was back in town for the summer, her teaching job on hiatus until August. My kids greeted her with hugs when she walked in one evening in early June. They watched, curious, as she knelt and unfolded a large map of the United States on the living room floor.
She looked at the foursome with a mysterious smile. “Your mom and I have a BIG surprise.”
They turned to me, eyes wide in anticipation. I asked, “How would you like to go on a trip to the ocean this summer?” Broad smiles, vigorous head-nodding, and lively chatter filled the room.
Diane said, “You’ll love the ocean. There’s nothing better than jumping in the waves and building castles in the sand.” Their excitement mounted. “Come closer, guys. Let’s figure out where we should go.”
Eric and Chad plopped down on their stomachs, wrangling for a closer view. Julie sat cross legged next to Diane, and Cherie scooted close to me as I sat down. Diane pointed out the coastlines. “Let’s find the closest ocean.”
Stretching a string from our town in Iowa to various beaches, we learned the Gulf of Mexico was closer, but not by much. Diane and I agreed my children should experience the full force of the Atlantic Ocean, huge waves crashing against the shore, despite the extra distance. Our bare-bones budget meant tent camping. After locating a state park adjacent to the ocean, our destination was set: Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
*****
We readied my brown Pinto station wagon for the ten-day trip. Wind whipping through open windows would be the only air conditioning. Mom and Dad bought us a Sears cartop carrier to haul camping gear, duffel bags, and beach supplies. We borrowed their vintage, six-person tent. Pillows, sleeping bags, overnight bags, books, toys, and a cooler got crammed into the car.
Each year on our family camping trips, Mom and Dad hauled a surplus of stuff, from a propane stove to blow-up mattresses to a hatchet–you name it, they packed it. In contrast, Diane and I were determined to pack light. A single skillet, a spatula, one sharp knife, and aluminum foil were all we brought for cooking. Mom tried to talk us into bringing camp chairs, but we pooh-poohed that idea. Who needed chairs to lounge in? Besides, most of our time would be spent at the beach.
A Pinto wagon is too small to comfortably accommodate six people and their provisions, but we managed to fit everything in. Two kids sat in the middle seat, the cooler between them, while the other two rode in the far back. We filled the floors, both front and back, with sleeping bags and items needed during the drive.
The four in the back had short-enough legs to stretch out. However, the passenger in the front had to sit cross legged or rest her feet on the dash while the other drove. Diane and I learned to trade positions often, not to relieve the driver, but to let the passenger put her feet on the floor.
*****
We arrived at Mom and Dad’s on the day of our departure to load camping gear. Mom gave rounds of hugs, seemingly unfazed by the uncertainty of our travel plans. Dad, however, looked worried. Early on, he voiced reservations about his two twenty-something-year-old daughters traveling cross country with his grandchildren in tow. He now peered in the driver’s window and fretted, “Be careful! I worry about you driving so far.”
I tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry. We’ll be careful. Together, we can handle whatever comes up.”
Diane chimed in. “We camped with you, so we know what to do. Everything will be fine!”
Dad circled the car, checking the security of the cartop carrier clamps one last time then stepped back, wearing a look of resigned acceptance. “Okay. Looks like you’re set. Call if you run into trouble.” He bent down to give love pats to grandchildren through car windows.
Mom stood beside him, smiling and blowing kisses. As we pulled away, she called out, “Have a great time! Love you!”
The kids blew kisses in return, waved, and shouted, “Bye! Love you!” from the rear of the overpacked car. We were on our way.
*****
The first day was uneventful, with one minor glitch. In our attempt to pack lightly, we forgot to put a knife inside the car to make peanut butter sandwiches. Digging through bags, Diane found a metal nail file to use as a substitute–problem solved!
Shortly after dark, we arrived at our aunt and uncle’s house in Louisville to spend the night. We woke to Aunt Joyce’s lavish cooking: coffee cake, egg bake, sausage, and juice. After multiple thank yous, hugs, and goodbyes, we headed east. A long day of driving stretched ahead.
The traffic on I-64 was heavy, and so was the persistent rain. Navigating through Lexington in bumper-to-bumper traffic, I realized we needed to be in the right lane to take I-75 south. I couldn’t see the mirror through the fogged windows to change lanes. Diane tried to clear off her window as I looked for an opening. I glanced back at the cars in front of me–the left lane of traffic had come to a complete stop. I braked hard, but the Pinto hydroplaned on wet pavement. Stopping in time was impossible.
Without uttering a sound, Diane frantically and repeatedly pointed left as I simultaneously steered the car into the median, barely avoiding crashing into the vehicle ahead. We rumbled through tall grass as I urged the car forward. Fortunately, the traffic started to move, and cars in both lanes parted to open up a space. I re-entered the highway, merged into the right lane, and exited onto I-75.
Diane said, “Are you alright? Do you want to pull off? I can take over if you want.”
I kept my eyes on the road. “Thanks. I’m okay to keep driving for a while.”
When I initially saw the line of cars at a standstill, an out-of-body calm took over. Time slowed. I felt in control, capable of handling the situation. That sense of calm stayed with me for several miles after the danger had passed.
But as the incident replayed unbidden in my head, followed by graphic images of what could have happened, I felt overwhelmed. How close I had come to smashing our car filled with my children and sister, traveling 55 miles per hour, into the cars ahead! Shaky, I pulled off at the next exit, eager to let Diane take the wheel.
*****
We made slow progress the rest of that day. Knowing a campsite wouldn’t be available until morning, we started looking for lodging an hour out from the coast. We stopped at budget motels in small town after small town. After hours of seeing only “No Vacancy” signs, we drove up to the entrance of Myrtle Beach State Park at 4:00 a.m.
The ranger on duty told us the park gates didn’t open until 7:00 a.m. Pointing to the wayside where other late-arrival campers were parked, he said we could camp there. The kids, groggy but awake, complained in unison: they were scrunched and wanted out! We unfurled sleeping bags in the grass twenty yards from the roadside and lay down, hoping to get some rest.
Diane’s voice echoed in the dark. “Think what Dad would say right now if he saw us lying on the side of the road.”
I chuckled, “This is exactly what he worried about–his daughters and grandchildren at the mercy of strangers lurking nearby.” Imagining his horrified reaction to our predicament struck us as funny–we laughed until tears came.
All got quiet for a few minutes until a fine mist descended, followed by a light drizzle. Sleeping bags got tossed in the car amidst ill-tempered children. The drizzle turned to steady rain.
Cherie’s small voice piped up from the rear. “I need to go to the bathroom.” Chad chimed in, “Me too!” The verdict was unanimous, so we pulled out and drove toward town in the dark.
The only place open with restrooms was IHOP. We trudged in, looking bedraggled and road weary. My ragtag crew made a beeline for the bathroom while Diane and I settled in a booth and ordered pancake breakfasts. Cranky and too tired to eat, the kids fiddled with their food until we gave up, left meals untouched, and returned to the campgrounds.
We were in luck. The rain had stopped, and we were fourth in line to claim a camping spot. Diane offered to stay with the car while I led my children on a sandy path to the beach. As we hiked over the crest of the seawall, their eyes widened. The majestic Atlantic Ocean spread out in front of us: gray-white sand, endless aqua-blue water, and foaming white waves crashing on the shore.
Words tumbled together. “Wow! Cool! That’s HUGE! Can we go in? Is it okay if we get wet?”
I laughed at their excitement. “Of course. That’s why we’re here!”
They kicked off flip-flops and ran to the water’s edge, tentatively immersing toes, then feet, followed by shouts of delight as waves engulfed their legs and soaked their shorts. I joined them at the shoreline, happy to be there. This is what Diane and I hoped for–pure joy from my children upon experiencing the power and magnitude of the Atlantic Ocean for the first time.
Clouds formed overhead, threatening a downpour, so we went in search of Diane. In our absence, she had secured the ideal camping spot, situated among towering Cypress trees a few hundred yards from the ocean. A camp store, bathhouse, and playground were all close by.
The rain began again, so the kids climbed in the car while Diane and I dragged the heavy tent from the cartop carrier. After pounding stakes in the soggy ground to secure the base and connecting unwieldy poles to form the tent frame, we wrangled the canvas into place.
Voila! Our home for the week was ready. Drenched, we hauled bedding into the tent. Unpacking the rest of the car would have to wait–all were exhausted, children and adults alike. We fell asleep to the steady drumming of rain on the tent roof.
Hours later, we woke to the sound of campers chattering, seagulls squawking, and the rumbling boom of the ocean. A cloudless, azure-blue sky greeted us as we exited the tent. Wiping raindrops from the picnic table, we ate a hurried lunch of bologna sandwiches and cookies, then threw on swimsuits for our first dip in the ocean. Summer vacation had begun.
You had be in the first sentence. Laughed with you as you described your details! Made me start to remember trips with kids in VW Camper!