Day One: It’s technically the night before vacation. I’m home from work and starting the process of packing. It takes another work day, seven and a half hours, to prepare. Seriously. We are not on the road until 10:30 at night. And we need two cars to pack all the people, clothes, food, animals, things, etc. We are not leaving civilization where a market, drug store or health care are unavailable. We’re just going to Montauk. Seven and a half hours.
We arrive and commence unpacking all the things. This takes two hours. By the time my head hits the pillow at 2 a.m., I am suffering post-traumatic stress disorder. Does anyone really need 16 pounds of french fries? Welcome to vacation, Nigro style.
Day One, officially: Dawn has barely broken but cold dog noses have already made contact with my face. If you have never experienced this, imagine being woken by a dirty, cold sponge shoved into your eye. The room is small and three tails are thumping rapidly against the closet doors. I must get up before they wake the children. No one wants to spend any time with my kids if they haven’t had a full night’s sleep. Any adversity will result in Exorcist-like head spinning and spewing. I grab the leashes and poop bags and head out. It is pouring rain.
The rain continues all day. Though some may have been upset and/or saddened by this, I am thrilled. It guarantees me at least one day I will not have to spend at the beach. The only problem is we have no wifi. Oh, and it turns out that streaming music from home to Maine and back again, twice in a week, uses a ridiculous amount of data. We are almost at the limit for the month and do not start a new month until Tuesday. It is only Friday.
A few hours in, my teenager starts to twitch. Then the shakes kick in. When he starts frothing at the mouth, we don our rain jackets and head to the car. I have found a wireless hot spot at the golf course. We sit in the car in the pouring rain — him furiously trying to connect to Optimum, me wondering where I went so horribly wrong that I am now sitting in a parking lot on the Fourth of July, while on a vacation most people would be thrilled to have, trying desperately to appease a borderline hysterical child. Attempt one has failed. In a deep depression, he tells me to “just go.” I am afraid.
Days Two and Three: Somehow, I manage to avoid spending any significant time at the beach, both days. There is shopping on day two. This thrills one child and infuriates the other. The angry one sucks the joy out of it for me and we return home for dinner. With blood sugar levels running dangerously low, we start the grill. After about 15 minutes, it becomes evident that the 1988 Charbroil special edition is, in fact, special, but not in a good way. I transfer all items to baking sheets and commence Operation Please God Let Me Feed These People Before They Turn On Me. We are less then 48 hours into vacation.
The third day brings the second round of vacationers. We add seven to the group of 10 and head out, en masse, to a restaurant. The weather and setting is beautiful, the food is not. No worries, we’re here for the company, which is always a pleasure. And then there is ice cream. We all survive.
Day Four: It’s the first day of planned beaching. The wind is blowing 25 miles per hour. This seems like a good thing to me. The beach will be cool and the bugs will be few. However, to the water sport people in our group and those who would like to go to the ocean, these winds are unwelcome. It is clear that at no point will all of us be happy. I work the numbers and go with my best odds. Then I pray.
After finally caravaning all 17 bodies to the beach (we only have one parking sticker), I settle in to a beach chair. My husband sets off on his kayak and is quickly out of sight. I see the look on my kids faces and am wary. Before the ice packs have melted, there is much whining. I have been trying really hard to pretend this is fun, but we all have our breaking point. I escort my offspring to the car, while telling them that they are ruining my vacation. Every day. I drop the miserable creatures back at the house and return to the beach without them.
Days Five through Seven: It’s all a blur of sand and sea. Some fish, some surf, some sunbathe. There are four teenagers, three tweens, a handful of middle-aged adults and a couple of senior citizens. I’m never sure where everyone is and just hope no one dies. When I see my husband head off into the sunset in his kayak, sans life jacket, I yell to him, “Don’t drown.” Then I add, “But if you do, do it quietly and without drama. I’m on vacation.” The only saving grace is that we have located all of the many ice cream vendors in Montauk. We agree that this will be dinner each night.
Day Eight: Another day at the beach. I head to the sand with a heavy heart, realizing that my family has no similar interests. And it’s possible that we don’t even like each other. And then I experience a Christmas-in-July miracle: I have fun. I go to the beach for more than 15 minutes and enjoy myself. The kids have fun. My husband seems happy. Our guests are smiling. I feel like we have finally turned a corner. We get back to the house and I discover that my daughter and I have been mauled by sea fleas. Yep, our Irish-potato-skin is covered in itchy, red bumps. I have never heard of these loathsome water bugs, but my husband informs me that this is why he didn’t swim. I guess he didn’t want to suck the joy out of my day without allowing me the opportunity to suffer first.
Day Nine: It will be the last on the beach. I have been defeated and take my flea bitten self to shore and just let it happen. It doesn’t go well for everyone, but at least we all remained alive. And there’s beer.
Day Ten: It’s all over but for the packing and cleaning. We clean the last dish, fold the last towel and wipe the last counter. While walking the dogs one last time before the car ride home, I ask my son if he enjoyed his vacation. “Well,” he replies, “though not always in the moment, overall, I would call it a success.” I hear ya, buddy. I hear ya.
Coming back from vacation can sometimes cause more stress then all the days off combined. Luckily, we had a washer and dryer at the house and came home with no dirty laundry. But, there was still the unpacking of suitcases, and all the food and leftovers. I bit the bullet and did it all before I sat down. Then I collapsed into my magical, marvelous, mystical bed.
One thing we had no leftovers from was fish fry night. The morning trip they took on the Lazy Bones fishing boat yielded them many, many pounds of fluke. We made a gluten-free batter that everyone agreed was delicious. Except for those who don’t eat fish. Because there’s always one.
Gluten-Free Fish Fry Batter
Ingredients:
Bob’s Red Mill Gluten Free All Purpose Flour
milk
sunflower oil (for frying-you can use any oil you prefer)
salt, pepper and paprika to taste
Combine ingredients until they reach a pancake batter consistency. Cut fish to whatever size you’d like. We made fish stick size pieces. Dip in batter and place in about one cup of hot oil. Once the edges have set and are golden brown, flip and cook another few minutes. The fisherman recommends cooking it a litte longer then you think you should.
What did you do on your summer vacation? If you can’t tell anyone else because they will call you ungrateful, share with me. I understand. laurie@riverheadlocal.com.
