THE
VACATION MIGRATION
We were a whole family, you might say a
tribe, headed for The British Virgin Islands . . . twenty-four adults and
eleven children—with only three left at home.
When four generations with that many people depart for a foreign country,
it’s like the Brits setting out on The Mayflower. Whatever the original purpose, it becomes an
expedition.
Our goal was a resort on Virgin Gorda called
Aquamare, altogether three villas, which heretofore we’d viewed only on the
Internet. Between the pictures and the price, however, the Deciders among us figured
it must be pretty nice.
Turned out it was more than “nice” --
which will be discussed in a moment. In
the meanwhile there was a significant hurdle . . . namely, the distance between
Us and Them.
Remember those faraway days when Getting There Was Half the Fun? As a group we’re here to attest this is now
fiction. With ten different households departing from eight cities--some in California, others in Virginia
and Florida—we
experienced at least four major airline screw-ups. (Though none rated as disasters).
Let me count the ways:
A. Lauren and Dan--plus two children
under five--arrived at their six a.m. Reno departure a tad late—made later when
an American Airlines employee told Lauren, “You’re in the wrong line. What
makes you think you’re first class?”
“Because I bought first class tickets.”
“Show them to me.” The woman remained un-convinceable. However,
she added enough delay so that Lauren’s group missed the plane, had to spend
the night in Dallas,
and arrived a day late.
B. Kelly and Matt, plus two kids
nearing ten, drove an hour to LAX, only to learn their midnight flight was
cancelled. No pilot. Home again, with their house occupied by house-sitters,
they borrowed Betty-Jo’s home and next day started over. Eventually they
arrived, but a day late.
C. Christy and Mike, plus two kids also
nearing ten, spent nearly three hours sitting on the tarmac in Miami—the first half with no air-conditioning
and no water. For that interval, the passengers were in a virtual torture
chamber.
D. Madeline’s intermediate plane left
so late she missed her last mini-flight on Seaborne Airlines. Stubbornly
refusing to compromise, Seaborne doubled its fares for all delayed passengers.
For a twenty-minute flight they demanded an extra $400.
On a better note: Rob and I traveled
with Brandon
and Rachel and two kids under seven. Though none of us got much sleep on our
three flights coming and going, those two kids—often food-deprived, always
sleep-deprived—never complained and never stopped smiling.
Once at Aquamare, we were suddenly and
completely enveloped in luxury. Our private chef prepared three meals a day for
thirty-five eaters, ranging in age from 88 years to 8 months. To our surprise,
some of the most gifted eaters sat in high chairs. Our chef beguiled us with sautéed
shrimp, grilled tuna and juicy steaks, salads filled with fruits and artichoke
hearts, desserts like brownies a-la-mode and key lime pie.
To top off the amazing food, it was
served on special plates, individualized with each of our names and a
hand-drawn picture—created back home by Christy and her daughters, Marley and
Malena, as a way to memorialize the trip. We were all surprised and pleased by
the artistry.
At different times, different members played
games—Sequence, Boggle, and the card game Golf. Rob and I devised two quizzes,
one personal, one informational, and the allure of monetary prizes assured us of
the group’s rapt attention.
Almost everyone, even those nearing
ten, did their share of Caribbean snorkeling,
while the daring few rented a boat and scuba dived. But the boat also served
other purposes: as a water ferry to and from town and other islands, and even
as a water-ski boat for kayaks.
Because Rob was days short of turning
89, our kids and grand kids surprised him with a steel drum band (an old
favorite, Morris Marks), and almost everyone, including us, danced in the sand.
Using a prop, Rob called his version “cane dancing.”
Early in our stay, we began noticing a
form of covert thievery. No cash ever disappeared, but rum, beer, wine, and
chocolates were considered fair game.
Among notable achievements—Spencer,
nearing five, learned to swim. Several ten-year-olds, already swimmers, became
competitive at parlor games, and when Ella, also nearing five, was asked why
she wasn’t turned loose in the pool, like her aunt, she said, “You’re 24. You
can swim.”
With our resort a short air flight from
Puerto Rico,
we heard all the cautionary tales about mosquitoes that carry the Zika virus.
No visible mosquitoes were ever seen by us.
But other critters, permanently
invisible, immediately began feasting on our 140 arms and legs, covering all of
them in multiple, itchy welts--inspiring a run on anti-itch creams and the repellent
DEET. But DEET only worked when you remembered to re-apply.
Constantly trying to figure out which
chemical was currently missing, among the adults our five days of luxury had
its lesser side--a subliminal tussle between Sun Sprays and Bug Sprays.
The second resort challenge were the
beautiful tile floors in every room—but only when they were wet. Since areas of
“wet” were a more-or-less permanent condition, we found ourselves walking with
measured steps, like penguins in the arctic. For Rob and me, it was like trying
to remain upright while crossing an ice-skating rink.
A tile-puddle did eventually “do-in” our
granddaughter, Christy, who went down hard on the side of her foot. But like
all the good sports—meaning everyone—she only complained briefly.
Among us, two people were notable for
adoring babies. And we had plenty of youngsters to adore. Grandmother Betty-Jo
seldom had a baby-free lap, and father Matt spent numerous intervals tossing
one or another child into the air.
With 35 people you’d expect an equal
number of differing personalities, from crabby to disinterested to sweet. But
in those five days, “crabby” and “disinterested” never appeared. Sure, a baby
occasionally cried, but only briefly.
If I had to name the personality trait
that seemed to define everyone from three on up, it was Geniality. For that, Rob and I are taking some credit. After all, didn’t the two of us begin creating
this mini-nation . . . cheerfully . . . sixty-six years ago?
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Yesterday I finally saw the Amazon version of my two books: "Higher Than Eagles" and "Damn the Rejections, Full Speed Ahead." Amazon did a great job. Both look attractive, but more important, they stay open--easily.
