Rescued*

The year was 1992. My family was in the midst of our traditional summer vacation to Lakeside on Lake Erie. Lakeside, the exact locale of said vacation, was a quaint, remote town approximately one-half hour from the famous roller-coaster mecca of Cedar Point.

We stayed in a cottage near the Lake and when not playing a mean game of shuffleboard, the majority of our time was spent in, on, and around the water. And by “water,” I mean the water on the left side of the dock. The dock darted out about 100-yards into the Lake, and all of the children swimming about the left side of the dock were being monitored by lifeguards as well as frenzied parents.

And that’s fun for awhile. But every now and again, you need a little adventure. You need excitement. You need, well, freedom.

So, my younger sister, our two friends, and I embarked on what will be referred to as the Great Escape of 1992. We went to the local tour shop and each purchased a black innertube to set sail on (gasp!) the right side of the dock. We headed on over to the Lake and when we approached the dock, we made a sharp right turn toward the rocks. We scurried on down the rocks until we hit water and with our innertubes afloat, away we went. When we approached the end of the dock, we kept on floating. Now we were twice the length of the dock out into Lake Erie and oblivious to the speed boats flying by our preteen bodies. Yet we keep on trucking. Where, we don’t know, but one thing is for certain, nobody knew we were gone.

So we thought.

As we continued to float, a familiar boat rapidly approached us, and offered a ride back to the rocks. But what is independent about that? Besides, at the ripe age of 12, I knew better than to take a ride from strangers. Especially if it was an enormous boat full of men twice my age. Wearing nothing but swim trunks. Well, turns out the boat looked familiar because the side of it broadcasted the U.S. Coast Guard.

Well, we paddled our proud selves back to the rocks, Coast Guard en route. And the closer we came to the rocks, the more we recognized the familiar faces awaiting our arrival on the rocks. Our parents. And cousins. And aunts. And uncles. And sister. And not a one shared the same look of excitement that we exhibited. In fact, their faces revealed more of a look of fear. Of disapproval. Of “I hope you enjoyed this day because it may be your last.” We made our way up the rocks, greeted my parents, and before welcoming us back to land, my father slashed our tires.

And of our numerous family vacations throughout my 20-something years, that memory is one of the most vivid.

Fast forward to September 2007. My sisters, their husbands, and one of my best friends from college (Ece) are vacationing down in Turks and Caicos. And slowly but surely, history repeated itself. Keeping active on the beach, Ece and I had swam, snorkled, and kayaked on Day 1. But we had approached the time to venture out to Sea (the Caribbean Sea, that is) on a catamaran. And similar to my experience in 1992, my family members were keeping a close eye on me.

Only this time, with a camera. See for yourself:

Ece: Let's take an afternoon trip on the catamaran!

Me: Great idea! Have you ever been?

Ece: No, but I took sailing lessons last summer in Chicago.

Me: Besides, it seems like it's common sense. (Just like tubing in Lake Erie, no?)

Younger sis: Uh oh. Do you see what is going on down there?

Older sis: Oh no. Here we go again.

Both: HUSBANDS!

Me: Oh no. Look who they've sent for us.

Ece: Time to take it up a notch.

Both: Muh-wah-ah-ah.

And the sea was angry that day.....

And just like 1992, the rescue boat comes after us. And just like 1992, when it approached us, we calmly told him we had everything under control.