About that beach trip

We spent last week in Rehoboth Beach. In one house, our family of five plus my parents; my sister-in-law, Krystle, and her 1-year-old daughter, Serenity; and two nieces, Penelope, who’s 8 and Hazel who’s 4. In another house, my sister Jen and her two middle-school aged boys; our cousin Wendy and her husband and their 5-year-old son, visiting from California; and our other cousin Brian and his wife and their two daughters, ages 19 and 15, visiting from Colorado.

I have all these pictures on my phone. Pictures of the girls and their cousins on the boardwalk. Pictures of sand-covered Annie and her signature squint stealing Goldfish crackers from Serenity. Pictures of Lily mugging in front of giant cargo planes during a day trip we took to the Air Mobility Command Museum in Dover. Pictures of Jovie being sculpted into a sand mermaid, her face a mix of glee and bliss. Pictures of cousins and second cousins blowing bubbles and learning origami and riding the firetrucks at Funland. Pictures from a date night with Brad during which I purchased a tiny rubber hand on impulse after a couple peach sangrias. Pictures of Krystle sipping a mojito- that same rubber hand daintily holding the straw.

There’s also video of me singing and dancing on the boardwalk in the moonlight to Fun’s “We Are Young” after those aforementioned peach sangrias and video of Krystle and I singing “Wannabe” into an umbrella after those aforementioned mojitos.

I scroll through these pictures and they tell this silly, sweet story of an incredible family vacation. All laughter, no tears. All sun-kissed perfection.

But a couple days after coming home– my legs still sore from an American Ninja Warrior-style race through a Funland obstacle course to retrieve a petulant 4 year old (more on that later)– I still haven’t shared them on Facebook or Instagram. I haven’t shown them to friends.

It feels kind of disingenuous.

Because it was a nice vacation – “the weather was great,” I keep telling people who ask – but right in the midst of all the joyfulness and giggles, was exhaustion, frustration, and intense sadness and regret.

Which I understand don’t seem like the stuff of a breezy, week-long beach vacation. It’s not the stuff anyone wants to know about or hear about. So, I’ve shared nothing. Feeling like all these photos are too focused on one part- and so they’d be taken out of context.

So here’s some context.

Last year, my cousins Brian and Wendy lost their younger sister suddenly and unexpectedly. Though Christy had struggled with addiction on and off for years and more recently had developed an infection that left her wheelchair bound, news of her death was surprising and heartbreaking. Since Christy’s death, her siblings have been reeling and sorting through all the questions about what they did or didn’t do. What they could’ve and should’ve done. As they’ve attempted to grieve and sift through all these complicated emotions, my parents and siblings have tried to offer whatever support we can from thousands of miles away.

It was Brian who proposed the idea of the West Coast Cousins meeting up with the East Coast Cousins for a beach vacation. Dad’s side of the family has always been small and far flung. We’d visit occasionally over the years, but none of my siblings had been especially close with our cousins in the years before Christy’s death. My parents lived in Colorado for 12 years and regularly got together with Brian and saw Wendy, too when she moved from California for a couple years to be closer to family.

But Death has this strange way of shaking your shoulders, right? About the fleetingness of time and the value of family and the want of forming just one more memory with the other branches on your tree.

So they came to Delaware with their families and various members of my sprawling family came with their little ones and teenagers in tow. We all stayed in two houses about a block apart from one another. The well-appointed West Coast house was worthy of a spread in a design magazine- featuring original art, fancy appliances and a kitchen garden. The more modest East Coast house featured great-grandma’s furniture, excellent water pressure and a giant sunroom great for the babies and little girls to play in.

We were a group of 21 ranging in age from 10 months to 75 years old, all with varied interests and varied vacation goals. For the most part, we seemed to strike the right balance of intermingling and “do your own thing” time.

Our houses would meet up at the beach, enjoying brisk swims in the Atlantic between wrangling small people. On one night there was a family cookout and a visit to Funland on another. There was that trip to the air museum where Dad shared stories about his time in the Air Force and career in Rocket Sciencestry. Afterward, there was lunch at a hole-in-the wall soul food restaurant Brian found.

When the WiFi went out at the West Coast house, various teenagers arrived at the East Coast house, hoping to catch up on their TwiInstaChatBookLers or whatever it is they do. While visiting, Brian’s 19-year-old daughter found herself mobbed by small people- they all bonded over a mutual love of Pokemon. She patiently answered their questions about her makeup and blue hair while showing them how to make boats and stars out of paper. The older girls and teens spent one morning at the Go Kart track with Uncle Brad and Jen.

There was fun to be had, certainly.

But there was heaviness, too.

The West Coast cousins arrived with some of their sister’s ashes. One night, under the threat of a thunderstorm, a group of us trekked down to the beach. We circled around on the sand in the twilight and shared our memories of Christy and our reflections on family. We listened to “Ripple” by the Grateful Dead– who Christy loved.

“There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone”

Grateful Dead

Then we walked into the waves and my cousins sprinkled some of their sisters remains into the water (illegally I feel the need to add. Though we discussed it beforehand and decided that Christy, who was always a bit of a rebel, would’ve approved).

It was so very moving. So full of tenderness and sadness and longing and love. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know Christy hardly at all. Or that I rarely saw these cousins, we were all fully in each other’s hearts.

Back at our house, we sat in the living room and listened to “No Hard Feelings” by the Avett Brothers.

And then, as my family is wont to do, we began speaking earnestly. About Christy’s life and death. About the lengths you can go for a person you love who is struggling, and also about the limits you set for yourself.

My father shared unaired grief about the death of his own sister, my Aunt Margot, who killed herself when I was in high school. We talked about guilt and responsibility and acceptance. And the whole time I kept thinking about how familiar my West Coast cousins were- how despite the fact that we didn’t grow up together and communicated only occasionally, there were qualities about them that I identified with as being so… us. You know, that willingness to enter into the dark water of soulful discussion. That wry, dark sense of humor, too.

We are family, I thought.

I’m not sure what other families in other beach houses were talking about as the ran poured outside that night- I imagine it wasn’t quite so heavy. But as heartbreaking as it all was, it was cleansing maybe. We were all opened up. It was a seance of sorts, but rather than calling forth those who had passed, we called forth this connection between one another. Our branches brushed against each other and underground our roots entwined to nourish one another.

This wasn’t the last of the tough conversations we’d have for the week. There were teenagers caught doing teenagery things they should not have been doing that made for some tense moments. My over-tired, over-stimulated 4-year-old niece had a few epic meltdowns that were concerning the grownups in our house.

Strong reactions arrived in the strangest places.

Inside the massive C-5A Galaxy at the air museum, there was a picture of a Humvee- the same kind my little brother road around in Afghanistan as a Marine.

Dad, pointed to the roof- “That’s where Steve was, with a machine gun,” he told me. Steve has never said much to me about his time overseas. There’s been a distance between us for years. I didn’t know he’d driven around hostile terrain, a sitting duck. Though it was years ago, and he’s home now, this brought a whole rush of emotions- terror, sadness, awe.

Early on in the week Lily developed an intense fear of horseshoe crabs after seeing one in the waves. We had many discussions about how might look a little scary, but they weren’t going to hurt her. I’d finally coaxed Lily out into the water again, when one came crashing toward us on the back end of a wave sending Lily into a near apoplectic fit. It was my sister-in-law– Steve’s wife– who saved the day, sharing facts about horseshoe crabs with Lily- about how their blood was used in vaccines and how they’ve been around longer than dinosaurs.

“Aunt Krystle,” Lily asked later that day, “will you go down to the water with me?” And as I watched the two of them bounce down the sand, I felt grateful that I didn’t have to answer all the big questions or solve all the problems.

The week ended with one last visit to Funland. This time, just Brad and I took our girls and Penelope and Hazel. Brad took the older girls to the big kid rides while I took Hazel around to the little kid rides, towing Annie behind me in a wagon.

Hazel insisted on taking her new stuffed animal- a pale blue llama with a flowing rainbow tail and a unicorn horn- on all the rides. Her face as she rode the carousel, Skyfighter, Swingers and Kiddie Wheel was pure magic. On the tot swings, I watched as she held her llama up into the air, hoping for the tail to catch a breeze.

“This.” I thought to myself. “I will remember this moment, her smile, always.”

We had enough tickets for Hazel to go on one more ride- she spotted this The Jungle of Fun- a sprawling obstacle course with slides and bouncy things and giant padded swingy things to dodge. Nestled in the armpit of the big Jungle, was a tot Jungle, perfect for Hazel.

“Auntie Susie, I want to go in there!” she exclaimed.

I hesitated for a second or two, worried that if Hazel entered the Jungle, she might never want to come out. But I figured I had a carrot to dangle in front of her: The opportunity to get a plush snake like the one her sister had and to eat birthday cake with Papa.

“OK,” I told her. “We’ll do this and then after, we have play games to win your snake!”

She raced in and zoomed around and around and around about a billion times. At one point she looked up and noticed big kids climbing through the bigger Jungle overhead. I watched as she tried to find ways to get into the otherside from where she was- but everything was netted off.

After 15 minutes, I told her she could go around one more time, and then it was time for games. I repeated that about five more times as she continued to do laps. At this point, I realized my fears about her not willingly leaving the Jungle were probably well founded.

I waited by the exit- but with Annie and the wagon to guard, I had limited mobility. I texted Brad and told him I needed him to come and get Annie so I could retrieve Hazel. I waited another few minutes until Hazel, miracle upon miracles, finally came out all on her own.

That feeling of relief I had- Hazel leaving the play area without making a spectacle- lasted seconds.

As I was ushering her toward her shoes, she spotted the thing she’d been searching for the whole time: Entrance to the big Jungle- through the unguarded exit. Before I could grab her, she darted through the opening and up two levels of slides.

I yelled up at her to come down. I reminded her of the snake and the ice cream. She slid down the slide. Then climbed right back up. I told her she shouldn’t be in there- that she was too little and hadn’t paid to be in there.

Nothing.

I alerted the staff that she was in there and told them my husband was on his way to watch the baby so I could get Hazel. The young woman told me I wouldn’t be allowed to go up and get her, but that she would try. So I watched her climb up the slide and attempted to coax her down. Hazel stopped climbing through the structure, but froze in a little ball at the top of the slide. Clinging to the netting surrounding her.

I knew at this point, she wasn’t going to come out willingly.

Where the hell was Brad? I tried calling. No answer. I suddenly felt sweaty.

I heard the woman trying to talk to her. I heard Hazel screaming no. I began to feel all the eyeballs of a bustling Friday night at Funland drilling into the back of my head. I watched as the woman tried to physically pull Hazel off the netting- I heard Hazel scream louder.

I felt a rush of panic and adrenaline.

I told the attendant not to try to grab her- that she was scared and wouldn’t come down for her. The attendant ignored me.

Brad finally arrived.

I told one of the other attendants I needed to go up and get Hazel. She shook her head curtly at me. “No,” she said. Then looked over my shoulder.

I told her that if I had had any tickets left I’d use them- but I didn’t have any. That I wasn’t trying to be a grown-ass, 37-year-old woman running through an obstacle course in a skirt for my own amusement. That my niece was scared and would not come off the obstacle course unless I got her. She continued to say no.

Hazel continued not budging.

The Jungle guardian finally relented. And I ran into the obstacle course. A grown-ass 37-year-old woman in a skirt with all the eyeballs in Funland watching and judging. I got to Hazel. I tried talking to her. She screamed at me, too. Finally, I pried each of her strong little fingers off the netting, wrapped her in a bear hug and slid down the slide and out of the Jungle and past the little swings that had been so magical only a half our ago and out of the nearest Funland exit into the relative quiet of a side street.

Hazel screamed the entire time. Brad followed with the baby and the older girls. “Take the kids,” I told him. “I’m walking home.”

He suggested Hazel ride in the wagon, but I knew it would take a force of nature to loosen her from me.

“Go,” I said again. “I just need to get out of here.”

And so Hazel and I left. On the walk home, her clinging to my neck like a baby chimp, I told her about how she scared me. How I was upset that she wouldn’t listen. How she broke the rules and could’ve gotten hurt. How it was not OK to run away. She continued whimpering and eventually calmed down. It was a long four blocks.

That night as I was trying to get her to sleep, she apologized for running away and not listening. And I knew she meant it. And I knew her little 4-year-old body and little 4-year-old brain had gotten too caught up in all the noise and lights and adventure. That a week at the beach away from mom and dad in a new house with the long days and the not enough sleep and the unfamiliar rules and expectations and all the people- it was all too much. Her system was overloaded and suffered a widespread failure right there at the top of the slide in The Jungle.

I get it little girl. I get it. This life can be a little too much sometimes.

Yesterday, I saw this quote from Pema Chödrön that seemed especially relevant:

“Things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”

Pema Chödrön

And then while reading another chapter from “Because of Winn-Dixie” to the girls I came across this gem:

“I lay there and thought about how life was like a Littmus Lozenge, how the sweet and the sad were all mixed up together and how hard it was to separate them out.”

Kate DiCamillo, “Because of Winn-Dixie”

And so back at home, I’m left to carry all these things. All these beautiful pictures, all these funny, sad, frustrating, bittersweet memories. All the joy and misery rolling in and out like the tides. Washing up rocks and shells and horseshoe crabs- which are all at once ancient and terrifying and healing.

They all have to fit into this little box I’ll carry around in my brain forever– Beach Week in Rehoboth, 2019.

One thought on “About that beach trip

  • June 25, 2019 at 9:59 pm
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    I got to go on vacation after all! An amazingly concise summary of how it all spills out in a mix people and places in a time. … I love you, and them and the story.

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