Our day on the Cape was well worth the drive. We met my father, Chuck, at his house hours after we escaped the NYC traffic. He was properly stoked to see us. About an eighth of a mile out from his house, dubbed the “Wilton Hilton” after its location and likeness to a hotel for weary travelers, I spotted him, and remarked:
“Look, Chelsea, there’s my dad,” to which she replied,
“I can’t see – oh wait, is that him waving frantically?”
He was waving like a marooned man on an island, hoping the low-flying seaplane (which was slowing to a crawl, and had its signal on to turn left, and was waving back, and calling him by name over the P.A. system) would somehow see him and stop by for a bit.
We were welcomed with snacks and then packed up for a quick tour of my childhood homes, for Chelsea’s sake, and a jaunt down to Craigville beach. Beach chairs, surf, and a blonde ale from Cape Cod Beer were accompanied by Chuck’s stories of my eventful youth (that knife fight at Charles De Gaul airport seemed different to me…).
Returning home we saw my uncle William and nephew John, watched the Kentucky Derby, and eventually cleaned up for an excellent dinner of swordfish and vegetables with Chuck and his girlfriend Beth.
The next day Chelsea and I squeezed in a run/walk through Centerville, did some laundry, and headed out for the nearly-soverign nation of Vermont to check in on my mom, Tim, and all their animals.