There are a lot of variables in my life, but summer vacation isn’t among them. I always take my summer vacation in August, and I always go to Cape Cod. There’s a reason for that, though after this year’s experiences, I’m pretty certain it’s the same reason I’ll give to avoid going next year: one whole side of my family lives there.

I flew out with my son and my mother; my dad met us there after attending a conference about a musical instrument so obscure I won’t even mention the name. I hadn’t flown since September 11, so I didn’t know what to expect. The first leg of the trip began at the Peoria airport, where I found they take security very seriously. The flight took off in the early morning, and there were only about six other passengers in the terminal.

I was the first one through the metal detector, and for once, I didn’t set off the alarm. I was pulled aside, however, for what they called a “random search.” No problem; I was happy to do my part for national security. Pronounced risk-free, I watched my mother go through the detector. She, too, was pulled aside for a random search. While thoroughly impressed with their safety efforts, I was beginning to suspect they didn’t understand the meaning of the word “random.” This was confirmed when all of the passengers in line were pulled aside for a date with the detector wand.

After experiencing similar events throughout the rest of our travels, we arrived in Cape Cod, anxious to begin a fun-filled week of playing catch-up with long-distance family members. It’s amazing how much one can forget in a year’s time—for example, how poor I am compared to the rest of my family. My uncle—a professional cellist in Los Angeles who apparently doesn’t know that classical musicians (with the exception of Itzak Perlman) are supposed to be perpetually starving artists—decided one afternoon that the boys—his 10-year-old and my seven-year-old—were old enough to have their own “starter boat,” in addition to our family’s sailboat, the Shere-Khan (you know, the evil tiger from The Jungle Book).

He immediately set off to find a boat dealer—not hard to come by in Cape Cod—and sure enough, returned an hour later with a new boat. All I could think was that I don’t even buy shoes for my son on the spur of the moment—let alone a sea-going vessel.

It turned out the starter boat was pretty useless anyway. With a little instruction from his grandfather, my son soon learned how to handle the Shere-Khan with ease—furling the sail (putting the sails away for the night), shooting the mooring (maneuvering the boat to pick up a buoy), and steering the boat (steering the boat).

Several days of being cooped up with the Insane Family Posse took its toll on my immediate family—the adults turned into children, and my son, Jesse, was the lone voice of reason. While driving to the beach for a brief, precious escape, my dad and I talked quietly in the front seat, while my mother and son got rowdy in the back. I heard my mom take a sip of water and then a spitting sound as water sprayed all over my son. While the adults laughed like hyenas, Jesse calmly took the water bottle from her hand, declaring, “All right, that’s enough.”

All of the togetherness also took a toll on the collective brain activity of the adults. Jesse was introduced to Pierre, a family friend whom he had never met, and who shares a name with the main character of Jesse’s favorite book. On the drive home, the meeting with Pierre still fresh in our minds, my mother asked Jesse a question about the book, and he supplied the correct answer. Continuing the conversation, my dad asked him what other question “Pierre” could be the answer to. We expected nothing more than a quote from the well-read book, but instead got his Jeopardy-style response: “What is the capital of South Dakota?” The three adults looked at each other, shrugged, and said, “Yeah, that sounds right.”

By the way, I checked, and he’s right. I also noticed during my perusal of the map that South Dakota is pretty removed from any family members I’m aware of, so “Pierre” may also be the answer to where I’ll vacation next year. TPW