You are kayaking in pairs through a narrow channel to get to a bioluminescent lagoon. Your youngest daughter is with you, and your youngest son is paired with your wife. Which means your two oldest are together – the two kids who are theoretically best equipped to manage a kayak without their parents. And yet the drama erupting from their vessel is like nothing you’ve seen since King Kong fought those three T-Rexes. And she is shrieking, and he is barking, and they’re bickering non-stop, and they’re stuck in the mangroves, or they’re facing the wrong way, or they’re falling behind, or they’re going too fast, or they’re beached on the bank, or now they’re back in the mangroves. And part of you wants to hiss at them to shut the Hell up and get a grip, and part of you wants to pretend in front of the instructor and the rest of the group that you don’t know these kids. But you do neither, and instead you act calm while issuing clear instructions. Because you’ve learned that projecting calm is more important than being so.
And soon you arrive, and there are more stars overhead than you ever get to see. And the water glows in your hand and on your oar. And a hush falls over your kids as they take in the beauty of this moment on the dark water. And it is breathtaking . . . At least until a shrimp jumps onto your oldest daughter and flaps around in the boat and she kinda freaks out. But it was magic there for a moment.
And you all linger for a while, and then head back. And they’re not arguing anymore. And they seem to have gotten the hang of rowing together. And you’re back on dry land, and they’re giddy. And you actually see them embrace. And on the shuttle ride home, they’re talking about what a great vacation this has been. And you’re not exactly sure what changed or when, but you’ll take it.
And your other daughter, who has the percentage body fat of a pencil, is shivering and wants you to carry her. She’s eight for crying out loud, so there’s no way that’s happening. But you have a strong back for a reason, and you are always warm. And besides, she weighs about as much as a dry box of mac & cheese. So you scoop her up in one arm, and her drink and sandals in the other, and trudge toward the hotel. And she giggles to herself, doubtlessly at the fact that she has you as her beast of burden yet again. And you feel like a sucker of course, but a vastly lucky one.
And now you’re to the hotel, and your youngest son is punching you playfully. And you break into a sprint – in flip flops – to escape him. And your whole family gives chase. And you’re all running past other guests, and laughing (or squealing), and apologizing to the staff. And as you reach the elevator, you inhale deeply. To catch your breath, of course. And to savor the sea air. But mostly, to somehow capture this day and hold a part of it in your lungs. Because if there were a day you could live again, this would be as good as any.
And later, your busy thumbs peck these thoughts into words. And you are dissatisfied with them. But you listen to the ocean and the chirping of the coquies, and you forgive yourself the failure to adequately express your thoughts. And you will go to sleep as a man in the moment in which he is most aware of his own happiness. And that’s really all you can ask.