All the confidence leaves me the minute my big toe enters Lake Michigan. Inside, I shriek; recoil from the ice water as it penetrates. But to my family’s eye, I am unmoving.
I am the rock. I am Dad on Vacation. I take another step.
The water crests above my knee and every instinct wants me to pull back. There are demons in Lake Michigan, of that I have no doubt. It is the middle of July and yet the water is so cold that I wouldn’t be surprised to see ice. But I have driven my family 500 miles to enter this lake and we will not turn back now.
Three kids sit on the rocky beach cheering me on. Fans of my determination. My wife shakes her head next to them as she has taken a break from her magazine to watch my triumph. My mother-in-law pursers her lips again wondering how her daughter could have married this man. I continue.
To my thigh the water splashes. I have sacrificed too much to not go into Lake Michigan. I have left so much behind, trials and tribulations left by the roadside like little breadcrumbs to the next father who decides to give his family a perfect vacation. I spent weeks finding the perfect cabin, and every day I was asked “are you done yet?” by some member of my family who assumes this is easy. By the time I found that cabin, my ears were numb.
It took us an hour to go eleven miles when we first started the trip. “Wait, I forgot something!” someone would yell from the back seat. “Can we stop for something else to eat?” another asked. “I need to pee,” a child finally decided. That was the start of the trip and the beginning of what I sacrificed. Making good time was no longer an option.
“Something just flew out of the car,” I was told 200 miles in. It probably wasn’t important. That’s the lie I tell myself knowing full well that I’ll have to stop somewhere down the road to replace whatever was not important.
In the water, back at Lake Michigan, it’s the knowledge of the hardships that keeps me going. I’m not driving all that way to not put my mark on this lake. Then, perhaps, it will truly be great. A take a large step and the water comes up to my nether regions.
I inhale, sucking in the hot air that somehow has no effect on the water. I can feel it. I know what just happened. All fathers do. There is shrinkage and a pain runs up my back. I grit my teeth and take it like a man. This is only the most current price I have paid thus far.
For fifty miles on the road, I began to notice a slight stink. It got worse as we drove. Being dad, I thought of the car’s engine. Is something wrong? Can I fix on the open highway without stopping?
“Seventeen!” my six-year-old yelled from the backseat and my two older children began to laugh. I wasn’t sure what was going on. The smell got worse. My eleven-year-old boy then let out an earth-shattering fart and yelled “eighteen!” Comprehension came to me. The children are counting their farts.
Lake Michigan is a popular family destination. But for me, it’s not a vacation. It’s a religious journey to prove to myself that I can take it. I can rise above and be Dad, the all great and powerful. The giver of sage advice and wonderful family memories. I jump next into the water my belly hair soaks up the water. Lake Michigan will become part of me as much as I will become part of it.
An hour away from our cabin, I thought I got stung on the forearm. I looked down and realized that my mother-in-law’s bare feet were on the center console. She was using it to stretch her legs. I wasn’t stung, I was scraped by a toenail.
In Lake Michigan, I puff my chest out with that memory and stride forward. I might be getting close to hypothermia. I can smell oranges and rotting fish.
Pins and needles bombard my shoulders. Almost there. The memory is almost there. I traveled so far, and I will dunk myself into Lake Michigan. I’ve given to much not to.
To them, my family, they still cheer. The kids dart in and out of the water, screaming joyfully. My oldest daughter dunks herself in the shallows and pride warms my core, giving me courage. She gets it. Out of all of them, she gets it. This is an epic quest and she is the sidekick every father deserves. If she is that brave, then so am I.
I dunk my head. Things go black, the back of my neck burns, and a fish may have slapped me in the face. It’s either that, or I have begun hallucinating. It doesn’t matter. I linger for what seems to be an eternity as the slow seconds tick by. I have done it. I have taken my family on the fabled American RoadTrip and I have conquered Lake Michigan.
I leap out, a triumphant scream from my lips, and my reddened skin begs from sunshine. I am reborn. A new energy fills me as easily as that moist coastal air.
I make my way out of Lake Michigan, but not without a chattering word to my accomplished goal. I conquered you. I have made it.
“You’re an idiot,” my wife says from her safe lawn chair.
“D-d-d-d-don’t care. H-h-h-had to be d-d-d-done,” I say.
“Feel better?”
“Yes. Let’s go get lunch. There’s a restaurant with goats on the roof. I want to take the kids there,” I tell her. I’ve got this. I am the memory maker. I dig up adventures and make them happen.
“Your son lost his shoes,” my wife says.
“Which boy?” I ask.
“Both of them.”
Excellent. This is how legends are made.
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