Yee gads!  The BreakAway bus leaves again in just 19 days–this time for 5 weeks in Europe with the whole famn damily of 4.  We are, of course, in a calculated state of denial, which, when turned inside out, resembles measured panic.  Although we’ve traveled a lot, everyone prefers blithe ignorance regarding planning, preparing, packing, ETC!

• Enter the agitated task-master

As my family’s chief chef, bottle-washer, errand-runner, schedule-maker, general contractor, list-steward, and task-master, this particular phase of travel brings me as much joy as a colonoscopy.  I’ve lived through one of those now, and thus know all things must pass—including this pain-in-the-ass prep stage.  Thank God!

Still, the first digit on the clock is one number earlier when sleep abrubtly stops each night.  Soon, there will be no need to go to bed at all.  Funny.  The mind can’t stop agonizing over countless tedious tasks in the middle of the night.  But in the middle of the afternoon, it lacks the mental competence (and time) to attack said details.

• Let us all praise Doug Mack

Lucky for me, a copy of Doug Mack’s Europe on 5 Wrong Turns a Day graces my bedside.  He’s a friend and a heckuva funny writer.  And during last night’s insomnia, I found desperately needed inspiration as he trashed Amsterdam and Belgium.  He made me smirk at stoned tourists, aloof eateries, and the pissing-boy statue.

In other words, in the dark of night, Doug lightened up this BreakAway blogger.  Arthur Frommer’s Europe on 5 Dollars a Day is dead!  Long live wrong turns, long lines, tourist traps, and the bloated Euro!  Bring on jet lag, busted luggage, and whiny progeny who will prefer iPod games when presented the wonders of the world!

Doug’s memoir confirms that travel is both a nightmare and a dream.  Many pursuits will disappoint, yet serendipity will abound.  A sav-trav attitude is in order, yet even veteran bon vivants confront disappointments daily.  They key is to keep your sense of humor, self, and place.

Doug’s bold storytelling also gave me the guts to get back on my blog-horse and, maybe, log this ride.  After all, his journey brought him a book deal!  And if that doesn’t work out, well, nobody reads most blogs anyway, right?  I mean, not even my mom.  So what have I got to lose, other than time?

Time?  I got time—or soon will.  That’s what BreakAways are all about:  Making and taking time for what matters.  Capturing the moments from a once-in-a-lifetime European family adventure.  This stuff matters.

Besides, writing and picture-taking take on more meaning when you fly away from your already-seen scene.  And you observe more mindfully.  If nobody views my stuff, so what?  It gives me literary license to say whatever the hell I want with no risk—which may be its own reward.  So thanks, Doug (I think).

• Can we get there from here?

The itinerary, in brief, features Tuscany, Denmark, and Sweden.  Tuscany offers a place we know, and have even “lived,” plus a two-week extended family group-grope gathering that, one hopes, will be good for the kids.  Think: Cousins.  Grandparents.  Goats.  Soccer in mountain pastures and village piazzas.  Daily gelati.

Then we bid the rellies arriverderci and head north to Scandinavia—praying to the Pope and anyone else who will listen that the unglorious Nordic cuisine doesn’t head too far south, breezes up there are not too northerly, and the stoic Scandi-hoovians serve up some sort of la dolce vita.

The Big Idea here stems from wanting to show the kids “where they came from.”  That we are “more than just American.”  That the family lore and fading lingo that somehow live on here are alive and well there.

Years ago, on BreakAway #1 (one whole dang year off in the Caribbean and Europe), visiting Scandinavia was a coveted vision for me—and, yes, it DID live up to the heartfelt vibes that pulled me there.

Will it for them?  Can we get there from here?  Should we just stay in Italy and soak up sun and vino and study la dolce far niente?  Naah.  Let’s give our children wings and roots.

Today’s Washington Post announces that, for the first time in history, the majority of  babies being born in America are minorities.  In other words, minorities are the majority now.  It’s a timely twist as I show my offspring where they got their (increasingly rare) blue eyes and blond hair.

But we also aim to wander in ancient castles, build short-lived sandcastles, dance around a ginormous Midsommer bonfire, and bask as a family in summer days that are so long the sun barely sets.

Rain or shine, may those days dramatically differ from the multi-sport/traffic-jam/laundry pile-ups /homework & concerts/dates and playdates/alarm-clocky/Subway-in-the-SUV routine that life can become when two parents, a 15-year young man, and a 9-year-old girl get lost in Modern-Family America.

So let’s get lost.  It’s about time.  And let’s take that time, while we still can.

Care to join us?  Please do!  It gets lonely telling tales when nobody listens.  But I’ll do it anyway—knowing that the stories and scenes that await are truly priceless, and they will only appreciate in value as the years fly by.  We’ll be glad to have these keepsakes, someday.

Someday.  There’s that word again.  In 19 nerve-racking days, sweet Someday will arrive again…

This vagabond has vacationed via all kinds of vehicles and means: planes, trains, autos, buses, helicopters, hovercrafts, ferries, fishing boats, sailboats, mail boats and more.  But a big, fancy cruise ship?  That’s a new one.  So the time finally arrived—in this winter of climatic discontent—to set sail on a vessel featuring a shameless menu of amenities on board.

A good time was had by all.  In fact, one week later, some cruisers are probably still recovering.  Yet amid the remoteness and soothing blue Caribbean water, the one wave that kept splashing salt into my eyes was the absurdity of escaping into a never-neverland of indulgence while so many in the world are hurting.

• In Japan, millions suffer from an earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear meltdown.
• In the Mideast, millions march in the streets fighting for basic human dignity (and sometimes, their lives).
• In the US, millions remain homeless, hungry, or unemployed while surrounded by enough riches to provide plenty for everybody.

I blame TV.  As one who watches no TV news at home, and edits other sources, I couldn’t resist the odd thrill of channel surfing while floating far away from reality.  The fresh images of unheard-of hardships everywhere else provided ongoing, sobering, reality slaps.

You can sail away, but you can’t hide.  Life on this complex planet includes both the amazing sea and the anguished masses.

No wonder we need to “get away from it all,” or at least try, now and then.

Sometimes, a week far away seems hardly worth the toil, though most Americans rarely do that any more.  Other times, like this time, a week away feels like a mini-Sabbatical.  Mazatlan served up a healthy helping of sunshine and sass—just when winter Up North was threatening to become a living hell.

Mazatlan has been an important port and escape for millenia, yet it feels timeless.  When did it lose all sense of time?  Perhaps when brave explorers landed the endless beach and—if they had any sense—hunkered down for a while.

Or maybe it happened whenever the natives started settling.  And who wouldn’t want to stay?  Even in January, the sun shines warms the land to a balmy 80, while night falls to a cozy 50.

Might the development of the 60s and 70s been when time stopped?  Resorts and hotels shot up like beach weeds—while one young entrepreneur hatched Senor Frog’s.  All those cool cats made millions.  And Mazatlan became one of the world’s hot spots, at least for a while.

Time stands still in a place like this.  Nobody seems to care what day or decade it is.

The livin’ is easy…

The Pacific makes for a frigid bath in winter, but cool water never hurt anyone (at least not like ice).  And explorers, settlers, and vacationers must have one thing in common:  The desire for easy living.

Today, Mazatlan looks like the glory days may have come and gone, over and over again.  One one hand, dated and shuttered hotels and villas line the expansive Malecon promenade.  “Narc lords who got busted” go some stories.  Other abandonments, who knows?

On the other hand, giant luxury resorts and condos keep shooting up—as if they expect masses of loaded tourists and retirees to fall from the blue sky.  Clearly, money still flows, and Mexico is full of untapped potential.  Too bad most residents barely have running water in this third-world conundrum.

But maybe it’s better this way, at least for us visitors.  Parking is a snap.  Great restaurants are half-empty on a weekend night.  The service people offer competence and curiousity, as if they never expected to get rich quick anyway.

What they say is true:  Mexicans are happy people, more interested in pleasure than work.  They have much to teach their jaded neighbors to the north.

• So much to see, so little time

As always when on BreakAway, reality calls all too quickly.  A week flutters by like the crazy frigates in the sky.  Tan vacationers reluctantly board the same airplane that plopped them here seven days ago; the same aloof flight attendants give glances that say, “You again?”

In my case, a reunion with some lifelong friends also celebrating 50 birthdays makes the city backdrop superfluous.  Could we have forseen that our mutual adoration could last so long?  That we could still talk (and party) nonstop?  That our giddy  laughter could still make strangers stare?

That said, this place merits more attention.  Like, maybe, five months a year.  Just ask the smart Yankees and Canadians that smugly stay here—and look mostly fat, smart, and happy.

• Comin’ back to the cold

Even the tires scream when they hit the Minnesota ground, which remains covered in unyielding snow and ice.

But for a few days, and maybe longer, the mind’s eye sees not frozen urban sprawl, but Pacific waves.  Smiling Mexicans of many generations.  Art tucked into beloved boutiques and erected beside the sea.  Seafood so fresh it might jump off your plate.

On the plane, an elderly gentleman who now has a second home there reflects,

I thought I was just smitten with the vacation fun, and life couldn’t be better than it is in America.  But after all these years of living in both places, I’m sure of it now:  Life is better down there.”

Doc Abbott was the eccentric proprietor of a picturesque promontory on Lake Superior—now owned by several generations of my (wife’s) relatives and called, simply, “The Point.” 

His HOUSE RULES, which hang prominently in his original log residence, offer an enlightening view on how to be a good guest and tread lightly in your travels…

HOUSE RULES

1. GUESTS WILL PLEASE NOT SHAKE HANDS UPON ARRIVAL OR DEPARTURE. 
2. PLEASE DO NOT MENTION IT HAS BEEN A LONG DRIVE, WE REALIZE THAT MORE THAN YOU DO.
3. B.Y.O.C.  (BRING YOUR OWN CIGARS AND CIGARETTS.)
4. GUESTS WILL KINDLY MAKE THEMSELVES AT HOME, AND NOT BOTHER THE MANAGEMENT FOR ENTERTAINMENT.  WE HAVE NOTHING TO OFFER. 
5. PLEASE DON’T SAY YOU ENJOYED YOUR VISIT.  IF YOU DID, COME AGAIN.
6. AFTER DEPARTING, DO NOT SAY TO YOUR FELLOW GUEST, “WHAT A STRANGE PLACE.”  HE IS THINKING THE SAME THING.

Doc sold the property to the family in 1955, with the agreement that he could remain in residence for as long as he lived.  Less than 6 months later, Doc’s beloved canine companion, Duffy, was hit and killed by a car during a supply trip to Grand Marais.  Later that day, Doc took his own life, here on The Point.  RIP. 

Some insist that the ghost of Doc Abbott still lurks around The Point—and appears in dreams, strange noises and inexplicable occurrences.  I cannot personally validate these claims.

Last weekend, when hosting a session at the UnSummit conference, I found myself facilitating a conversation about mini Sabbaticals.  Sometimes, that notion makes my nose turn up like a snob at White Castle.  But more and more, I endeavor to embrace the fact that most folks are lucky to even snare a vacation.  And I may be a spoiled brat.

When old haunts feel eerily familiar

With any luck, everyone has a place to BreakAway to—a cabin, campground or community.  I’ve got the deep waters and crazy party scene of Lake Okoboji.  And the pristine North Shore of Lake Superior.  Both offer the comfort of a favorite beach blanket.

But I must confess that the upteen vacations are blurring.

I mean, when digging up pics for this post, I could rarely tell one year from another.  Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Grand Marais, a cool place

My love affair with Grand Marais began in high school.  Despite my folks’ furrowed brows, I signed up for a 3-week environmental studies journey sponsored by the University of Iowa.  The trip was a blast, and inspired a turning point for my desire to break away now and then.

30-some teens of good fortune (though I paid for my own) from all over the U.S. canoed countless miles, hiked up mountains through thunderstorms, and of course snuck away from (or into) our tents to do the things teenagers do.  Our instructors both kicked our butts and blessed us with wise winks.

When walking the endless breakwater to the lighthouse, I can still hear a gaggle of us inventing verses, clapping and stomping, and then joining in raucous chorus to “We Will Rock You.”  Old stomping grounds, indeed.

Grand Marais served as a hub many nights before and after wilderness adventures.  So I left part of my heart in this little town and moody Lake Superior.  I didn’t know then, though, that years later, it would become like a second home. Strange angels work in mysterious ways.

Where arts-fartsy meets the Beaver House

This town, like most small towns, can be a little rough around the edges.  In the latest paper, the townsfolk are battling over a possible 4-day school week, the controversial new rain garden around the Veterans’ memorial, and the same marina plans they’ve been debating for decades.

It can be dang cold here, and locals often don’t need no Minnesota Nice.  I’ve seen grizzled adults refuse to share a view of the Solstice Pageant with kids.  Enviro-bohemians giving nasty stinkeye to a biker for smoking on the street.  And drunk resort owners try to rip me off over a fiver.

Paradise is like that, as I’ve experienced and written about more times that I care to remember:  The natives clash with the rednecks sneer at the Birkenstockers scowl at the opulent who complain that the artists’ and eatery’s prices are too high.

But it’s good to break away…

Lake Superior keeps rolling, the Angry Trout remembers me and the Ben Franklin is still stuffed with more merch than makes sense.  It’s just like last year.  And the years before that.  And I doubt that marina will ever get built—even though this feelin’-lucky sailor is in favor of it (and I would never say so out loud).

Yes, it’s summer.  Time again to break away to Grand Marais—same as it ever was.

Maybe it’s not a baby Sabbatical.  After all, if I added the days from the dozens of times I’ve been here, the sum total would be countless months stretching back to my youth.  A Big Break in many broken pieces, maybe?

I’m losing track.  I’ve been here less than 24 hours and it already feels like I’ve been here forever.  This sensation of relaxed languor washes over me like the lake’s crashing waves.  My thoughts turn to hot tubs, cold beer, foggy memories and little more.

Perhaps that’s the point.

Perhaps a vacation BreakAway to a familiar spot is one long, lazy, baby Sabbatical.  What do YOU think?

Getting Away From It All satiates the human need for discovery—of self, relationships, and a larger world.  The problem—as with all pursuits of pleasure—is ephemerality.  No matter how hard you try to seize and freeze sweet moments, they end, and ultimately become a blur. 

Time floats on  

If only folks were as obsessed with making the most of their time as they are with being efficient. We adore time-saving devices.  But they don’t work.  So we work overtime, and surrender vacation time.  Time is money.  Time heals all wounds.  But time waits for no one.  So why would anyone wait to take their time? 

Raising kids:  The ultimate blur  

Costs pile up when you take kids away on holiday.  Count the ways:  Airfare is sky-high these days; entertainment and eating take a big bite out of your wallet; skipping school can damage discipline and morph an A into a B.  BUT!  If you wait, it’s too late.  Kids don’t stay kids for long.  And before long, they, too, are “too busy.” 

Moon rise, moon set  

Month after month, the moon comes and goes in imperceptibly slow motion.  In the case of this 15-day island escape, the moon began half-full, then turned full, then went half-empty.  Back home again, those many moments studying the moon are a blur.  BUT!  Good news!  The cycle is repeating itself, and tomorrow she is full again! 

 Is it worth it?  Hell, yes!  

Going and coming makes life messy.  A limp economy is stealing people’s security, retirements, and dreams.  So in all honesty, even this spoiled BreakAway Brat can’t know when the next Sabbatical will transpire.  BUT!  It DID happen once, so maybe it’ll happen again. 

For now, though, it’s a blur.  A joyful, frustrating blur.  Like good times that end, raising kids that grow too fast, and watching moons that look still, but never stop.

When you gather up your gumption and step off the Reality Train, expect impressions and mindshifts to happen–especially if you’re returning to an idyllic place that’s been home before. Comparisons of “here vs there” are rampant, and ramp up as a more hectic reality looms.

Yes, too soon (as in tomorrow) it will be time to move on back to that bizzy place we call home.  So I’m trying to slow down and relish these images and sensations.  Isn’t that what travel’s all about?

Here, despite development, local color lives on. When a traditional Calypso band played for hours at a party, “here” was good for the ears.  There, “auto-tune” and rappers who can’t sing pass for pop music.  It’s little wonder that “I’m sad to say I’m on my way, won’t be back for many a day…”

Here, eating local means something.  Like, goat, whelk, conch, lobster, funghi, peas and rice, and Johnny cake.  There, eating local means…the closest Subway?  Food tastes better when cooked outside or under ramshackle conditions, in hot pots, with a generous shake of tradition. 

Here, one sees beauty, deep and natural.  The environment is lush after autumn rains, while the sea swirls in endless colors. There, winter beauty means white snow, a crimson cardinal, and maybe a crisp blue sky.  

Here, one notices beauty, skin deep and natural.  There, a parka can’t be too thick or too ugly.  Here, a swimsuit can’t be too skimpy.  It’s freeing to see every body comfortable in their skin—grandpas playing smashball, eco-nerds dancing, and all kinds of folks relaxing on the beach. 

Here, the weather has many moods.  It’s not always sunny, warm and comfortable—just most of the time.  There, it’s not always snowy, cold, and uncomfortable—just most of the time. 

Here, there’s space to explore freely.  There, we worry about promptness, parking spots, and good grades—while digitalia and Facebook steal ever-more time and space.  Absent that stuff—and fences and walls and rulebooks—most kids would rather groove with a starfish. 

Here, creativity happens.  There, creativity means juggling routines, coaching homework, and concocting dinner from leftovers.  Here, art abounds, color leaps around, and locals can’t resist turning a “Hill” sign into a “Chill” sign.  It’s contagious; soon sand becomes a medium, and any scene seems inspirational.

One year ago today, our bonafide BreakAway of 69 days had just begun.  By the time it was done we had hopped between five West Indian islands and enjoyed a grand family adventure. 

Yet even a once-in-a-lifetime tour distills down to sweet moments—the simpler, the better.  Thank goodness my camera helps me stop and spot them, and keep them in memory. 

Picturing scenes like these come in handy when the blizzard hits.  When the schedule stresses.  When the tedium gets monotonous  And when the time hurries past too fast. 

Without telling a soul, daughter Elsa left Santa a love note, a dollar and a Delta Airlines cookie—since that was the only one in the house.  Santa graciously responded by giving an ornament and some toys—and leaving the dollar (and some crumbs, of course). 

Mr. Guy Benjamin is a local legend who will soon turn 100; the Coral Bay school is named after him.  He still raises chickens, sells eggs, and signs copies of his memoir, “Me and My Beloved Virgin.” 

Fresh starfruit, right off the tree, may be the sweetest and tartest treat ever. 

Even a cloudy day at the beach presents the chance to bury your boy (except for his head) in the sand—and (eventually) dig him out again. 

My rejected apple core becomes a scrumptious lunch for a meandering beach chicken. 

Local artist Sloop Jones makes wearable art—and always has some island yarns and colorful ideas to share at his shop.

Coral Bay on St. John offers a stunning setting for a retreat, and I’ve loved this place for 21 years now.  But unlike a family farm, getaway sites feel eerily ephemeral.  CB may be “where tired angels come to rest,” yet devilish change is everywhere.  And “free time” itself sometimes seems neither unplugged nor uncomplicated.  It’s certainly not cheap. 

The faces change.  A fun-loving bar owner gets sick, then dies.  A charismatic captain gives up his craft.  An ubiquitous simpleton has gone missing.  And in our circle, the New York family we’ve met for three years with happily matching children has announced this is their last year here.  Many blessed ties that bind are fraying. 

Meanwhile, the fickle hand of Fate accosted CurlyGirl (6) today when she received a bunch of nasty stings—like welts from a whipping—from an unseen jellyfish. 

Call it her Requisite BreakAway Emergency, or a symbolic slap in the face.  A day of beachy bliss can turn to screaming dread faster than a stinger pricks skin. 

It harkened back to the same child’s medical misfortune almost a year ago to the day.  At least this one didn’t require a trip to the island ER.

It’s enough to make a guy on mini-Sabbatical cast away the snorkel mask and head back into the snowstorm. 

Four days in, the owies and adjustments offer evidence of the difference between a vacation (too fleeting) and a BreakAway (just long enough).  Margaritaville may not exist.  But we all have a craving—and a right—to pursue our cheeseburger in Paradise. 

Guess travel comes with costs

Getting to the place where you can get that burger is rarely half the fun.  It’s dang hard work.  Most folks don’t travel much, and that’s one reason why.  And as for kids, well, let’s just say they hardly ever carry their weight.  So the packing, schlepping, procuring and compromising can threaten your sanity and make sane people ask, “Is this worth it?” 

Is it worth…the price?  There are plenty of loaded (meaning “moneyed,” in this case) people roundabout.  And then there are the rest of us—who must numb our common senses to pony up for ever-rising airfare, and then pay double for everything here (if you can find what you’re looking for). 

I’m not spending my children’s inheritance; I’m spending my retirement!

But hey, I’d rather Die Broke than carry on cautiously.  And as this website repeats ad nauseum, why wait for retirement—since it may or may not happen—when you could possibly take temporary retirement throughout your life? 

The economic downturn has hit like a hurricane, though.  Charming shops are shuttered; eateries have ample empty tables in a peak week; more locals hang out lazily smoking pot while potholes in the road go lazily untended. 

Heck, this family has no business taking this year’s fast-lane vakay—since this self-employed’s business has been stuck in the slow lane for a year. 

I guess sometimes ease stays home.  Just ask the children, even if they are enthusiastic travelers, like mine.  Baby blue eyes cried, “I miss Daisy” (the cat) long before the jellyfish attack.  The tween-ager is missing much school and sports—again.  The new house-sitter missed the security code and the cops arrived in minutes.  What’s next? 

Travel risk is always next, potentially.  Like, our plane got airbound but a few hours later MSP was snowbound.  East Coasters here tell of arriving three days late due to their two feet of snow.  Another terrorist tried to explode another airplane.  And CurlyGirl’s relentless sinus-cum-ocean-bacteria virus may go ear-infection any time now. 

Plus, some prefer cooler climes—including my main travel mate.  They get frustrated by the heat, sand and bug bites and start itching for more to do than this sleepy place offers.  The internet is undependable.  Air conditioning–not.  And despite the water, water everywhere, you still can’t flush after number one or take a nice, long shower. 

And undisturbed views are getting scarce.  That metaphor could apply to many things.  But I’m talkin’ about yonder, in “my” front yard.  The new nayber is constructing a monument to himself that will massively block the pristine sea views and breezes from this Cloud 9. They take Paradise and put up a…McVilla. 

Guess Paradise just ain’t perfect

Yep, the first days have been been hot, wet, muggy, buggy, itchy, crabby, stinky and sting-y.  Way too many sailboats clog and pollute the harbor.  Heavy machinery grinds like monstrous dentists’ drills.  And until your inner clock gets reset to “island time,” you find your patience frequently frazzled.  What’s more…

Strange shtuff happens.  Awfully strange.  And though there may be more folklore than fact on your typical faraway isle, the many signs that linger about the two “Missing” people (including the aforementioned) stir chills.  Locals have stories about “what really happened,” and what hasn’t happened since.  More tales abound. 

So shut the blog up—and stay home? 

Guess there are too many bloggers & gurus in the cyber harbor.  Guess this site just ain’t taking flight—like millions of others.  Oh sure, I enjoy navel-gazing and spilling some guts and digital shots.  Sometimes I even keep the faith and believe blog star Seth Godin when he preaches, “Just do it more.  And do it better.”  But really now.  Really!

Still, I guess I must like it here.  On remote, sultry islands.  On a deck alone with a hot laptop atop tan thighs while watching squalls blow in from the British Virgins—while the gaffe-rigged ketch I used to crew on blows in from a daysail.  Here, on my fourth, fat, freaking BreakAway in the last 20 years. 

• Guess if that’s failure, bring it on

I haven’t had a margarita in ten years.  But could I still be searching for my lost shaker of salt?  I’m still searching for something (who ain’t?) and stooping so low as to be quoting Jimmy Buffet. 

But hell, if anyone has made a NAME and a BRAND and a BOATLOAD OF MONEY off BreakAway visions and delusions, he’s one. 

I’ll drink to that. 

So on that note, from a yellowed book off the shanty shelf that got nabbed for today’s five minutes of beach reading before the jellyfish assault, just this once, guess I will shut up and let Jimmy have the last word:

There will be no money left as I plan to spend it while I can, and when I die, I would like to be buried under a palm tree on the beach in an unmarked grave away from the maddening crowds like I saw today at Elvis’ grave.”

From “Tales from Margaritaville,” by Jimmy Buffett

For the final Travelog entry, may I present my perfect children.  I took hundreds of pictures of them, but published only a few on this website.  In this technological era of tell-all exhibitionism and voyeurism, some of us still have a place for privacy.  Yet I proudly show off this shot, and share these parting thoughts…

Dear Ones,

What a gift it was to lift you out of your classrooms and let you learn, instead, the lessons of experience.  To sneak you away from your world of scheduled play dates, sports teams, digitalia, and potty-mouthed pop music.  To let you live among new riddims, vistas, and cultures and, best of all, see you jump with joy at the chance.  Literally.  Over and over. 

 Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.”  Oscar Wilde

Now you will both grow up fast, then grow old gradually.  I know I’ve got MY ideas and dreams for you, like:  Let’s run away again!  Yet I honestly don’t know if we’ll be blessed with another family Sabbatical.  It’s a small miracle we managed this one, and that it went so well.  But oh my, what memories we now “carry about with us.” 

So grow ahead, already.  Grow ahead and get all independent, become skeptical of your parents, and perhaps eventually blame us for everything from zits to arthritis.  No matter what happens, we had this time together.  Just us.  I see now that, on a long list of Missions, this one mattered most. 

This photo, taken on our last full day, confirms that AllBoy has moved on; he has become Young Man. Heck, he’s strong enough to throw me in the pool, hurt me with his tackle, and outride me on the surf. He can run off alone and carry his own.  His raconteur instincts can charm a stranger or a classroom. 

CurlyGirl has grown up too, in so many ways; make way for Little Lady!  The baby teeth have shrunk and the lifetime chompers are emerging—ready to bite into bigger things.  Her speed and coordination are modeling her athletic brother’s.  Playtime drifts from Polly Pockets to Scrabble.  And she now insists on reading to me, rather than vice versa.

Let’s get together and feel alright.”  Bob Marley

In this picture, the two of you together become one shadow—which signifies the connection you deepened, all by yourselves.  (Parents can’t make you do that.)  He’s 11, and she’s 5, so they played up and down or met at 8.  They became best-friend sibs—a secret society with precious privileges that last a lifetime. 

Now, firmly on home soil, they’re suddenly 12 and 6, yet the bond remains robust.  In a world in which people obsess over careers, accomplishments, and self, perhaps the ultimate legacy we can strive for is strong offspring.  No amount of time or energy given to that task—whatever may be the sacrifice—is too much. 

But yes, you can go now. Go to your friend’s house, to a movie, on a date, to play a tournament, to summer camp.  I’ve held you in my arms long enough.  But you’re still welcome there.  Any time. 

With any luck, this BreakAway showed you that—in a way that words can’t.  It also showed you that the world is so much bigger than your backyard, and its horizon is boundless.  So are your possibilities.

But before signing off, may I say “thanks.”  Thanks for agreeing to go; many kids would not.  Thanks for holding my hand during the scary parts.  For romping with me in the sun, sand, and sea.  For reminding me how to laugh and splash and play again. 

Wherever we may go, whatever may become of you, this is how I’ll always see you.

So here:  Take this picture with you.  Let’s keep it as proof of the blessed gift of taking our time—with nary a worry about the future or past—if only now and then. 

I’ll still see this image when you become bigger and smarter than me.  When you leave the house to find your own freedom and fates.  When my heartbeat slows to a stop.  And today, when our dreamy BreakAway has ended and carried us home, where we belong.