44. Snacks by the Sea

Or how my son tolerates vacation with us

If you want this piece read to you (by me, not a computer) click on the audio above☝🏼

The town where we’ve spent many spring vacations since my son was little (thanks, Mom & Dad) is overlaid with memories of my kid running on the beach, chasing gulls, splashing in the frigid water, and tossing a ball into the waves to play catch with the ocean.

At almost 25 years old, my son seems to have cooled to the idea of a beachside vacation.

I’m lucky that he lets me go anyway.

As we do on any family vacation, we transfer ourselves to a new locale but try to keep as much the same as possible. I pack some new clothes for me, and old familiar shirts for him. I bring my “work” with me, cramming my bags with packets of condiments, medications, beads and earplugs. (I was never allowed to be a Boy Scout, but I am always prepared.)

On the day we arrive, from my parents’ balcony we watch a group of young adults on the beach play a spirited game of Whiffle ball. My son stays inside to raid his grandpa’s cookie jar.

For days, our son declines to walk on the beach, until his dad decides to go out on his own. To corral his father back inside, we skirt past families playing frisbee and kids hunting with metal detectors and friends coaxing each other into the water. Safely back at our home base, my son flops on the couch and insists we also take off our shoes.

My kid often chooses to be a homebody and I worry at home that he does too much “nothing.” But here, at least I can sit on our VRBO’s deck and visit with my folks or just sit and watch the waves roll in. This kind of nothing I don’t mind so much.

Early one morning, alone on the deck while my son stayed in bed, I watch a pod of dolphins swim by. I text my mom in her condo a few blocks down – Dolphins headed your way! – so we can watch them together.

When the five of us walk along the town’s main street, or on trails near the beach, my son is a sheepdog, dipping periodically behind the last of our herd to ensure we all keep moving together in the same direction. He doesn’t like us to window-shop or dally too long, but he makes an exception for the candy store.

One evening, our son walks with us to a local brewery that offers live music and a dog-friendly patio. Knowing that his tolerance for this nice ambiance will only last as long as the wrapped cookie he chooses from the basket on the counter, his dad and I split a quick pint of blood orange wheat beer and call it a successful outing.

At one of our favorite lunch spots – with plenty of outdoor seating and a son-approved menu – my kid doesn’t appreciate the joyful shrieks of the boisterous team of youngsters at the next table taking group selfies around a golden trophy. But after their party dissipates, we enjoy a quick lunch. As we’re finishing up, we notice two young men who’ve arrived at a nearby table, pacing while their providers get their table set. One of the guys twirls a long rubber tube on one finger. I knew this place had our kind of vibe.

When we drive to an indie bookstore in a nearby town, my son is willing to go – not because of the shop’s unique outdoor shelves and vintage books, but because (I think) in his experience a trip to a “bookstore” always includes a café where he can get a treat. I pick out a new/old paperback to read to him later, and his dad walks with him down the street until they find a snack.

I remind myself that my son can’t make a decision to go off with friends, or stay home alone while we go out. He’s stuck with us, his boring parents who do jigsaw puzzles and listen to podcasts and stop to read historical markers. He comes along, or we stay home. And, it’s not that we don’t try to find something he likes to do. We’ll do that thing forever once we figure it out.

Overall, he’s happy-ish here, the same as he is at home. He’s mildly disinterested when I point out gorgeous sunsets and diving pelicans and baby seals, but he enjoys seeing his grandparents and cashing in on the extra indulgences of parents in vacation mode.

Our kid is a good traveler and doesn’t mind a long car ride (with road snacks included, of course). On the drive west, he perseverates on our destination, repeatedly clarifying “hotel?” or “road trip?” or “beach house?” to make sure he knows (or we know?) where we’re going.

On the return drive east, he’s quiet.

Back home, our guy is an eager helper, emptying our bags and suitcases, returning toiletries, hats, and shoes to their proper places.

My feeling of rejuvenation coming home from vacation is possibly not the same as his feeling of relief coming back to where we belong.

His grin in our photos is genuine, though. And we are lucky for that, too.

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