Independence Day Rush

When you have four adults and two kids in a medium size car, they all scream with a different pitch when you turn into oncoming traffic. It didn't help a whole lot that almost everyone in St. Croix drives on the incorrect side of the road. The rental car even has a helpful decal reminding you (I'm sure the original idea of placing a red decal in the upper left corner of the front windshield with “Drive Left” was a good idea at first. Then some bureaucrat got a hold of the idea and the decal grew larger until it obscures most of the field of vision. But damn it, you now know which side of the road to drive on.)

We were going to the 4^th of July fireworks for the island. Everyone on the island was also going there. I know because the only four-lane road was backed up for a whole five minutes. (This might not sound bad, but when two kids and two adults (none of whom can carry a tune when it's dark) decide to pass the time singing the Twelve Days of Christmas, any back up is interminable.)

The fireworks were at the Frederiksted Pier at 8 pm. We decided to leave our place on the other side of the island at 7. (This doesn't mean we actually left. This means I had the kids in the car and my wife and her parents were beginning the process of getting ready to go. The kids and I had time for a nap and a game of monopoly while we waited in the car.)

While we waited, the kids and I bonded as a family.

“The fireworks are tonight?” my daughter asked.

“Yes,” I answered

“Do they start when it's dark?” my son asked

“Yes,” I answered

“We can come back and see them next year, can't we?” my daughter asked

“We'll get there in time. Dad drives fast,” my son answered.

“But grandpa and grandma will scream like mommy if he does,” my daughter pointed out. (In all fairness, there had only been one episode of screaming so far. It was the first day and we were going to cane bay. I knew everyone drove on the left side of the road. It's just that at a 5-way intersection, it can be difficult to figure out which left lane is the right left lane. I would have been all right if the scream hadn't distracted me. I ended up making a perfect five point turn and was impressed with the handling of the rental car. I'm pretty sure the ten or so drivers I cut off were also impressed.)

“No one's going to scream,” I was still a bit sensitive.

“Can I ride in the front? I get car sick now.”

“No,” I told my son. “Grandpa is going to ride in the front.”

“Why does he get to ride in the front?”

“Really old people get to ride in the front,” I answered.

That got them to talking about who was the oldest until were heard the grandparents coming down the steps. Ten minutes later, we were off across the island. One Christmas carol and a wrong turn later, were were almost there.

One of the nice things of driving in St. Croix, aside from the quick reflexes of the of the drivers, is they are very polite drivers. Often times, they will stop in the middle of a busy highway and let people turning right in. (For normal (Yes, I know this is not geographically correct.) driving, that'd be the same as stopping on the interstate to let someone from the left turn and merge into traffic.) As we came to the intersection, a polite driver was doing just that.

The screams from the backseat were my first clue that something was amiss. First of all, they were all in tune. Then I saw the car coming at us from the blind spot on my right. (My father-in-law, while old, is not yet transparent.) I slammed on my brakes and the other car slammed on his. There was a brief moment of residual screaming. Once everyone was stopped, I again showed how responsive the rental car was took off (this time minus the perfect 5-point turn.).

“Daddy, you scared the life out of me!” My daughter gasped from the back seat. “Don't ever do that again!”

“I wanted to make sure everyone was awake for the fireworks,” I explained.

Sure enough it, worked. For the rest of the trip there, every time a car was spotted on the road, everyone gasped in fear. They were awake, alert and paranoid. And too scared to sing. Mission accomplished.

ROAR!!

“When I'm scared, I breathe like this.” My daughter took three huge gasps and I'm pretty sure she almost split the seams of her wetsuit.

“Remember, if you are scared, take deep breaths. We're not in any rush and we're going to take it very slow.”

We were walking along the beach to the stairs in front of the artificial reef and it was a little after 8 PM. Since we were so far east, it was already dark. We were going on her first night snorkel.

“I'm just a little scared,” she confided and took three more huge gasps.

“Are you sure you want to go? We can go tomorrow night.”

Since her brother had gone the night before and told her about all the cool things he'd seen, I knew there was no chance she was going to let me off the hook tonight.

“I'll be ok, daddy.”

We'd snorkeled the artificial reef earlier in the day so she was familiar the the area. It was only a short swim of about 100 yards.

We sat on the steps and had a pre-dive briefing.

“We're going to sit on the steps and put the masks on.”

A quick nod.

“Then put on our fins.”

Another nod.

“Then we'll turn on the lights. When you're ready, we'll just lean forward and kick out. We're going to go nice and slow. I'll hold your hand the whole time. If you get scared, you can climb on my back and rest. Then we'll keep going. If you get scared, we can always come back in.” This got me a quick kiss on my cheek. (I used this same lecture for my son, father-in-law, brother-in-law and sister-in-law, except none of them gave me a kiss. I don't think they were really listening.)

Halfway out, I felt a hand on my back and a quick scramble next to me. “Daddy!” My daughter, using her normal perfect timing had waited until I'd breathed out before her scramble. Before I could get a breath I was under water while my daughter was comfortably sitting on my back.

“I lost my fin!” I heard as I came up for air. Tears were streaming down her face under her mask. We took a few moments to calm down, then I looked under the water while she held on to my back. That's when I realized the meaning of futility. At night, underwater is the definition of black. The dive light makes a nice bright beam, but that beam is not wide. The futility was looking for a dark blue fin in black water with a sobbing seven-year old riding on your back as waves bounce you up and down.

“It's ok. We'll get you more fins tomorrow.”

“Fin,” several words that could not be translated from snorkeleze. “Lost!”

A few minutes of treading water (I was treading, she was graciously letting me hold her above the waves.) and she decided she was ready to continue. (Sound is strange when you're in the water. High pitched sounds carry farther and seem amplified. I know this because, “Fin” and “Lost” along with soft sobs accompanied us the rest of the way to the artificial reef.

As we came over the tires and she saw her first lion fish, her lack of one fin vanished. She did her normal kick, twist and sideways spin. (My daughter took to water almost as soon as she was born. She has a unique way of moving through the water. All four limbs move at the same time (But none of them seem to know what the other is doing, or care for that matter). This causes a corkscrew motion through the water that is remarkable effective. Think of an octopus that suddenly realizes that it has twice as many legs as it should and hasn't quite figured out why or what to do with the extra limbs.) “ROAR!” she yelled as she looked down. (The lion fish was 10 feet below us. Both it and my daughter were safe from each other.) a couple of feet further and she saw her first octopus. (Just like the lion fish, the octopus had it's own sound. For the life of me, I have no idea what it was, I just know it was loud.)

Two lion fish, two octopi, several lobsters and a dozen string rays later, I had the pattern down and was able to gasp a deep breath before she climbed on my back. She lifted her head and said she'd seen all that her brother had and was ready to go in.

“Awesome!” was the first unsnorkeled word she said as we sat on the steps.

“Did you see the lion fish?”

“ROAR!”

"Did you see the octopus turn red?”

“Was he mad cause cause you touched him?” (I'd dove down to see if he would swim away. (I'm guessing it was a he because it wasn't smart enough to hide when two huge aliens swam over it. And since my daughter was still roaring to call the other lion fish, we definitely did not sneak up on it.)

“Yes. Did you have fun?”

I got a salty kiss on my cheek. “Yes, daddy.”

That more than made up for each mouthful of seawater I swallowed each time she climbed up on my back.

Everything but Snorkeling

“It's still early... Go back to sleep for a little while.” When you wake up and there's a six-year old, gap-toothed blond smiling down at you, this is pretty much the only acceptable response at 6:15 AM.

“Hellooooooo,” she's worked out just the right amount of sarcasm to put into that one word. “You promised to take me snorkeling this morning.”

She was right and I remembered the promise as soon as I had opened my eyes. But hope springs eternal. “It's still early, the fish aren't awake.”

“I am. You promised.”

“Ok, go put your swimsuit on. I'll be ready in a minute.” This got me a few seconds to wake up.

We'd made our annual pilgrimage to St Croix. My early wake up call was because her promised night snorkel had been canceled due to rough waves. According to her (See, daddy, they aren't taller than me. I'll just swim really fast) this was a gross miscarriage of justice. So, we rescheduled for first thing in the morning.

My daughter and I have a similar approach to the morning. While she wakes up cheerful and full of energy and I just wake up... we are both ready to go as soon as we're up. My wife needs breakfast, three cups of coffee and a demilitarized zone for a couple of hours.. So, we were swim suited, and I grabbed the fins and snorkels. Then went back in for towels.

“Helloooooooo. I need my wet suit.”

That was another trip back in and we were finally ready to go. On the way to the beach, we had to pick a piece of grass, because she is now a farmer (I have no idea when this happened, but apparently all farmers chew a piece of grass.), we talked to three hermit crabs and told them which way to the ocean (because they were so short, they obviously had no idea which way to go.) and my daughter found The Cutest Snails. (She wanted to take them home for pets.) We were finally ready to snorkel. Her fins were strapped securely to her feet and her mask was on. We kicked off to swim the 100 yards to the artificial reef. My daughter was right, if she swam really fast, she skipped right over the waves. That meant I either had to pull her fast or she would climb on my back and kick me to swim faster. (In truth, it was more like 90 yards because I could just see the tires coming into view when she pulled up.)

“I have a rash on my arm,” came out more as, “I ave a ash on y rm.” as waves kept bouncing her up and down.

“Do you want to go back?”

“Es. It urts bad!”

Swimming in with the waves was much easier. You just wait until they crest and kick. We made it back in record time because of the medical emergency. As we sat on the steps and peeled down her wet suit, she bravely showed me the two spots on her arm. I don't think we'll have to amputate.

“Where are the snails? I told them we'd be back.”

On the way back to the room, we gathered more grass to chew on, saw a couple more hermit crabs and stopped to pet a dog.

Once in the room, we took care of her mortal wounds and settled her down to a breakfast of cheetos, tortilla chips and salsa and an apple.

I made a mistake and changed out of my wet swim suit and came back to a very very indignant girl.

“Where's my tooth!”

“In your mouth?”

“No, the one I lost yesterday! I looked under my pillow and the tooth fairy didn't come. Mommy didn't put it under my pillow!”

(Truth be told, I did remember she lost another tooth. But she's lost close to 300 of them over the past couple of months they all blur together.) “Let me check,” I also checked and had a couple of dollars in my pocket. Now, I knew my daughter had done a thorough check. Just putting the money under her pillow would never work. “Did you check under the sheet?”

“Helloooooo, the tooth fairy puts money under your pillow!”

“Helloooooo, (two can play at this game) this not your normal bed. Maybe the tooth fairy was confused?”

“Oh...”

Sure enough, tucked just under the corner of the bottom sheet was her money from the tooth fairy.

“Yeah! Now I can pay mommy back!”

“What do you have to pay mommy back for?” If there was a chance, I wanted in on that action.

“When I accidentally make a mess.”

With my daughter, it's more accidentally not make a mess, so I knew my wife was going to come into a large amount of money soon.

I checked my watch and we'd already had a full morning and it wasn't even 7:15. Welcome to paradise.  At least I'll get an early start on my sun burn...

Tree House II

Mountains are made out of rock and we live on the side of a mountain. This will be become an important piece of information shortly...(This is foreshadowing)

“Do you girls want to help build the tree house?” I heard my wife say this to my daughter and her friend. It may be surprising that I could hear her say this, but since I could only see spots, my hearing was compensating... (This is also foreshadowing)

People who write how-to books are sadistic. (This is a basic truth.)

Because the tree house was for the kids and their friends, I decided to abandon my usual approach to building and had done some research and even had plans. The first book I read was very clear, you cannot anchor the tree house to the tree. There was something about how this would cause the tree house to fall apart as the tree grew. Instead, you take two strong boards and bolt them into either side of the tree and then rest the tree house on this. As the tree grows or gently sways in the wind (since we live on the side of a mountain, I was picturing a more “gently” snapping in gale force winds.) the tree house moves with it. So, with the two support beams anchored into the tree trunk, I was ready to start the platform.

“Daddy, are the boards supposed to be that crooked?” My daughter kept asking after I gently rested each of the support boards on the the boards bolted into the tree.

Anyone who has done any kind of construction, knows that you always plan a slight slope so that water will drain off. My muttered answer (since I was out of quarters, my daughter did not hear my real answer. (My wife had recently instituted a policy where certain words meant a quarter was added to a jar. This was a good idea after my daughter tried out “damn it”... I think her exact phrase was “Damn it, daddy, you have to play Barbies with me, now.”

I told her that was not a word “we” use.

“But mommy says it all the time.”

I explained that it was not a word she should use.

“But I like it, damn it!” That was the start of the money jar.)) was always “Yes.”

Until I stepped back to look at my progress.

“Mom! Daddy said your favorite word! Again...”

The plans called for 2X6 boards bolted into the tree and 8 inch lag bolts. I'd used 2X8s and 12 inch lag bolts figuring to be extra safe. The pictures in the books all looked amazing and words like straight and level sprung to mind. As I looked over my progress I realized I was going to have to go the bank and get a roll of quarters... I also realized that the people that wrote the how to for tree houses are (insert at least three quarters here) sadists.

So, my daughter, son and I sat on the hill and looked at the beginning of the tree house platform. “Is that what you planned, daddy?”

“No.”

“Will we ever have a tree house?”

“Yes.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Yes.”

“I know you can do it, daddy.” My daughter patted my should in a kinda doubtful way.

“Can we go up and play in it?” My son is the optimist.

“It needs some more bracing,” I decided. A couple of 4X4s would definitely remove the grotesque tilt. Fortunately, none of the plans I'd looked at had called for that. This meant I was back in my comfort zone.... winging it.

There was just one problems with my new non-plan. The posts needed to be cemented into the ground. That meant digging through several feet of rock. I was halfway through digging the post holes (and most of the way through a coronary.). This was when I heard my wife say, “Do you girls want to help build the tree house?”

My daughter had a friend over and they were both anxious to play in the new tree house. “Yes, let's go help my daddy!” I'm positive I heard my wife smirk.

“Daddy, we'll help you dig.” I saw two blond-headed blurs coming down the hill. They were blurry because of the heat stroke, minor aneurysm and heart attack I was currently having.

I managed to bite back, “Go away and annoy your mother,”

“This is heavy,” My daughter grunted as she picked up the post-hole digger. “Is your foot ok?” she asked after she dropped the pointy end on my foot. Luckily I was wearing work boots and I'd lost most of the feeling in my lower body from the aneurysm.

“I know, we can pick the rocks out the of the hole! Daddy, you dig and we'll do that.” Both girls squatted next to the very shallow beginning of a hole and were ready to snatch any rocks that would show up. The only problem was I had to break through the impenetrable layer of rock first. And I didn't want my daughter's friend to take any new words home with her...

I also wanted my daughter's friend to go home with both her hands. I knew as soon as I started to use the post-hole digger, one of them would reach in for a rock, no matter how far I told them to stand back.

When I write my how to book on tree houses, I'm going to include the little things like digging through rocks, avoiding cutting off little hands (no matter how tempting) and how to ignore all plans. Oh wait, I've already done that.