November 19, 2011
Nothing breaks up a ho-hum routine quite like a vacation, even if that vacation is a routine in itself. Today I depart for Captiva Island in Florida, as I’ve done around this time almost every year since 1989.
Captiva Island is the antithesis of, say, South Beach on the other side of the state—it’s a hideaway where peace, quiet and relaxation reign. Considering our cast of characters—my parents, my brother and his family, my sister, my brood and the odd cousin or friend—that’s the perfect speed. After all, cruising the South Beach strip with my 79-year-old dad would be just plain weird.
We’ve rented houses in the same development every year—and why not? In addition to being idyllically situated on the shores of the gulf, it has tennis courts, a swimming pool, grills and proximity to the Island Store (where, remarkably, you’re not pissed off about paying five bucks for a gallon of milk) and awesome restaurants like the Mucky Duck and the Bubble Room.
We do astonishingly little on our Captiva trips. A typical day goes like this:
• Wake up
• Go to the pool to lounge
• Eat lunch
• Play tennis (a dicey proposition this year due to my gimpy groin)
• Go to the beach to play Frisbee (dicey), swim and lounge some more
• Go back to the house to assemble our provisions for cocktail hour
• Tote our cocktail-hour provisions to the beach, where we lounge while watching the sunset
• Cook dinner on one of the grills
• Eat dinner
• Lounge
• Sleep
Unlike my pale and pasty march toward oblivion up north in Chicagoland, my Captiva routine never gets old.
This year, however, I’m just not up for it. Given my state of flux, the last thing I feel I deserve right now is a vacation. Nevertheless, most of it was paid for long ago, and Cassie and the kids would be crushed if we didn’t go, so I suck it up and fly off to paradise.
It proves to be a worthwhile journey. There are lessons to be learned, even after all these years:
November 22, 2011
The Best-laid Plans…
I love the sense of fellowship at the grills. Over the years, I’ve befriended people from all corners of the United States as various meats have been sizzling in the Captiva night, most notably a highly skilled group from Missouri. These guys had mastered the black art of “low-heat cooking,” meaning they’d spend well over an hour emptying their cooler and philosophizing about the goings-on in the world while their families waited patiently back at the houses for dinner to arrive.
Tonight Cole is my wingman, and our grillmates are two amiable gents from San Antonio, Texas. The Family Wagner has gone casual with burgers and chicken breasts, which is a little embarrassing because the Texans are pulling out every conceivable stop: succulent shrimp and steaks complemented by artfully seasoned potatoes. The middle-aged one works the grill like Renoir worked a canvas, and the older one sips a drink and chats with us about this and that. When their food is ready, the middle-aged man carefully arranges it on a tray. He’s rightfully proud, as this is a gastronomical masterpiece.
“Take care,” they say before heading back to their house.
“You, too,” I respond. “Enjoy.”
Thirty or so seconds later, I hear a crash…and a groan.
“What happened?” asks Cole, too young and innocent to know tragedy when he hears it.
“He dropped their dinner, son,” I say. The pained expression on my face belies my gentle and reassuring tone.
Cole and I take a roundabout way to our house in order to avoid passing the Texans. We don’t want them to know that we know—the least we can do at a time like this is allow them to maintain what’s left of their dignity. From a distance, I see the middle-aged man on his knees, picking up sand-covered pieces of shrimp, steak and potato.
“What are they going to do?” Cole asks, aghast.
“Salvage as much as possible,” I answer. “It’s all they can do.”
Really, it’s all any of us can do when circumstances knock us to our knees.
November 23, 2011
Life Goes On…
Each year, we charter a boat and spend half a day fishing—it’s one of our most sacred Captiva traditions. Captain Bob was our guide until he retired in 2008, at which time we turned to Captain Butch, a mountain of a man with a ZZ Top beard. Part fisherman, part teacher and part Captiva historian, Captain Butch is truly special. We’ve had record hauls of fish under Captain Butch’s watch (including a shark), and he’s the one who showed Liv the finer points of baiting a hook and using the reel. All the while, he has regaled us with island lore.
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| Captain Butch giving Liv a fishing lesson. |
My parents usually arrive at Captiva a few days before everyone else, and this year they relay shocking news back to us in Chicago: Butch is dead. He was diagnosed with cancer in February and succumbed to it a few months later. Apparently, a flotilla delivered his ashes to the gulf he loved so dearly.
I break the news to Cole. After a few silent, somber and reflective moments, he looks up at me from his video game and asks, “Who’s taking us fishing this year?”
I break the news to Liv. After a few silent, somber and reflective moments, she looks up at me from her book and asks, “Who’s taking us fishing this year?”
It’s a legitimate question, I guess. Although I’m not sure I want to fish this year without Captain Butch, a tradition is a tradition, and my dad has already found a new guide. We’ll call him Captain Rod, a perfect pseudonym on a couple different levels.
We arrive at the dock a few minutes before our scheduled departure time of 8 a.m. By 8:45, I’ve learned that Captain Rod isn’t big on small talk (or any other kind of talk), and smiling isn’t his thing either. I don’t know about this new guide, I think as we motor toward the deep water. Seems like kind of a jackass. Soon, however, I see things differently. By about 9:15, after he’s anchored the boat six miles from shore, I’ve learned something else about Captain Rod: He sure as hell knows where to find the fish.
We spend a rapturous morning reeling in lunker after lunker. During a particularly animated 15-minute stretch, my dad catches groupers weighing 12, 14 and 15 pounds. Even Captain Rod smiles when the 15-pounder is brought aboard. Cassie smiles, too, which is equally amazing since she hates everything about fish. Cassie has never been on one of these excursions—in fact, she’s never fished, period—but she tagged along today, figuring she’d just read and soak up some sun. Before long, however, she has abandoned The Hunger Games for a fishing pole and is catching her own lunkers.
All told, we catch around 60 fish, 33 of which are big enough to keep. It’s easily the most bountiful excursion we’ve ever had. As Cole and I prepare our fishy feast at the grills, I raise a can of beer into the night air and take a hearty swig in honor of Captain Butch. I then raise the can again and take another hearty swig, this time in honor of our new friend, Captain Rod.
November 24-26, 2011
Listen to the Dude from the Beer Commercial and Find Your Beach
I spend the rest of the week following the soothing rhythm of the island:
• Pool lounging
• Tennis (in a stunning turn of events, not-so-dicey by the final day)
• Beach lounging
• Cocktail hour/sunset
• Grilling
• Eating/lounging
For the first time since being laid off from Crushed Soul, my mind is clear and reenergized. Just a week earlier, I felt guilty about this Captiva trip, but not anymore. I’ve seen the light: Life is tough, and everyone deserves a vacation. God willing, we’ll all be back here next year.
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