My Summer Vacation

Why is this the first question on the first day of school every year?

What did I do this summer? Did I go on vacation?

Okay… you asked for it.

No one expects it, do they? You save and plan, buy tickets and make reservations, and what you expect for your money and your time is a nice, fun-filled vacation.

In my family, that has always been an expectation unfulfilled. I don’t know why Mom and Dad tried so hard; we’d be happy with a day at the pool and a barbeque.

Well, I would be.

Jackson, I think, enjoyed the drama of our vacations. Most of them, anyway—he didn’t enjoy this one. No one did.

It was Mom’s idea to go on a ferry ride, weaving a meandering course through the offshore islands, with a couple of stops for sight-seeing along the way. It was a day trip, the sort of extra-curricular activity one might opt for while traveling down the coast touring lighthouses and eating fresh lobster and fishing off piers.

Jackson was thrilled. “A three hour tour,” he sang. “A three hour tour!”

And right then, we should have known it—look what happened to the S.S. Minnow on her stupid three hour tour!

But, no! Instead, the four of us took our tickets and boarded the pretty ferry boat and took our places on the deck to wave goodbye to strangers as we drifted away from the mainland docks. All of us snapped pictures on our cell phones—shoot, everyone on deck was doing the same.

I would like to say that we had a pleasant and largely uneventful sail around the little islands in the North Atlantic, but that would be a lie.

We went first to the largest of the islands, and docked there long enough for everyone to go ashore and buy ice cream and postcards. It was a beautiful place: white sand, picturesque shops, a gorgeous lighthouse and friendly people.

I will add that the ice cream shop was excellent, and I had the best banana split I have ever eaten. Jackson got a waffle cone that was piled high with excellence. I took the best photo of his happy ice cream face and sent it out to everyone we know.

I’m so glad I did. He doesn’t smile much anymore.

He will, though. I know he will. He’s Jackson.

It wasn’t really a three hour tour, you know, but there was still a schedule. There wasn’t time to walk across the sands and explore the lighthouse, and Mom wasn’t happy about that. Lighthouses are her passion.

With Jackson in the lead, humming the theme to Gilligan’s Island, we marched back onto the ferry. We all had gigantic root beer floats—as if we needed any more ice-creamy treats. Dad was feeling indulgent, I suppose.

We hadn’t gone very far from the coastline when disaster struck.

"Disaster" is I will call the shark determined to head-butt the ferry into submission and sink her into the deep.

I’ve seen the shark movies, lots of them. Believe me when I say it does not prepare you for seeing one up close and in person.

That thing was huge!

I don’t know much about sharks. After that, I don’t think I’ll be doing any elaborate study of them, either. Jackson might—he’s been angry ever since.

They say there are five stages of grief. I think Dad and I have been through them all.

Denial: How could one shark hit a boat so hard that it would knock my mother into the water? What were the odds that it would then hit her so hard against the side of the boat that it would break her neck? Why didn’t it try to make a meal of her? It was impossible. Couldn’t happen. It had to be a bad dream.

Anger: Shoot that fucker! Kill him! Harpoon his ass and drag him until he drowns!

Bargaining: God, if you’ll just give me another chance, I will catch her before she falls. Dad will help me. We’ll stand away from the railing instead of running over there to get a look at that stupid shark. Please, God, let us have a do-over!

Depression: I am so damn sad. That was my mother. I want her back.

Acceptance: Yeah. We’re not there yet. I lied.

Jackson went straight to anger and stayed there. If he had his way, he’d kill every shark in the ocean. All at the same time, I’d wager.

But, here’s the thing—whatever drove that shark to attack the boat, it wasn’t natural. It’s not normal shark behavior; at least, I don’t think it is.

We all ran to the railing when the first crash against the boat happened. People all over the ferry were hanging over the side, trying to see what was going on. Mom, still clutching her float in one hand, didn’t have a grip on the railing. When the boat lurched, she more or less somersaulted over the side.

We all screamed. The shark barreled into her with his huge head and smashed her against the hull and then let her float off as it continued to pummel the ferry.

After she fell, at least half the passengers backed away from the deck rails. Not Jackson—he was going after his mother. Dad and I had to wrestle him to the floor of the deck and hold him. You’d think it would be easy; he’s not big. But it took us both to keep him aboard.

After what seemed like hours, the shark dove into the ocean and disappeared.

Someone recovered Mom; I don’t know who or how, I just know we were able to take her home and have a funeral.

No one knows what to say. None of us are ready to hear that the shark wasn't really to blame, that something environmental must have agitated it.

It wasn't even supposed to be there. It was far from its natural habitat, and no one has an explanation.

I don't know anything about that. I don't care, either. I do blame the shark, and sometimes I blame Mom and Dad, too.

You figure it out.

Here's what I do know: If Dad brings up vacation planning next year, I might go Jackson’s anger route and punch him in the nose.

I don’t think he will; Acceptance seems a long time coming for all of us.

Okay. That was what I did this summer. Any more dumb questions, or can we get on with the Algebra lesson?

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