Yesterday was Father's Day, and we decided to spend it with the family, at the beach.
So we packed up no less than 25 pounds of food, a giant cooler of margaritas, 17 beach chairs, 13 sweatshirts, five kids, three towels, and one boogie board decorated with sharks. We took everything but the dog, and loaded it into a wagon which Tim (Kathleen's boyfriend) then pulled to the beach.
The weather was great as we started out on our adventure. Warm and sunny, not too hot or too cold. It was going to be a lovely sunset dinner, and the kids were all giddy with excitement. (And by "giddy," I really mean "whiny" about carrying the assorted beach gear half a mile to the beach.)
However, as we turned right and headed onto the sand, we realized somebody forgot to tell the wind about our party. The sun remained, but the warmth dissipated immediately, replaced by an arctic 85-knot gale force wind storm.
But we Dinsdales are a stubborn bunch, and we like our parties. We weren't gonna let a little wind slow us down.
Sand, however, was another story. The sand definitely slowed us down, particularly Tim and the loaded-down wagon. He dragged that wagon across the sand without complaint, until Mary tried to help him. She grabbed the back of the wagon and pushed with all her might, remarking, "I don't know if I'm helping or making it worse!" And that was Tim's cue to save face -- he said it might be making it worse (he's so polite!). Mary then grabbed half the handle and helped Tim pull the wagon, which would've helped if my niece Nathalie hadn't taken up Mary's post behind the wagon. Now it was her turn to weigh down the back.
We finally reached a spot near the water. The kids proceeded to run around us in a circle, kicking up sand and getting in the way. Scott ordered them to stop, then gave them tasks to set up camp. Chairs were set up, small wooden tables were assembled, and food was set out. Everyone helped except my brother Brad, who insisted, "It's Father's Day, and I'm a father, so I don't have to help. And on Veteran's Day, I'm a veteran, so I don't have to do anything that day, either."
He was so proud and smug, I asked, "Oh, and do you get Jackass Day off too?" He replied, "No, but I think you do!" (We aren't your typical loving family.)
Mark was running across the beach, pulling the attached boogie board over the sand. Two-year-old Johnny thought that was great fun, and hopped on, which slowed Mark down a bit.
I set my red cup on the cooler to help Mary, and it immediately flew at me with alarming force, splashing my margarita everywhere. The good thing about the beach is that you don't have to clean up your mess -- I simply covered the spill with wet sand.
Mark and Nathalie decided to brave the water. I thought they were crazy (that water was COLD!), but as I stood on the beach watching over them, I realized it was much colder standing there in the wind.
I watched Mark and Nathalie get beat up by the waves for about half an hour. My cousin Kathleen was hilarious -- she chased Mark into the water, then grabbed up Nathalie and tossed her into the waves. She was laughing so hard about it, she didn't notice that she'd gotten herself all wet as well.
Mark and Nat did their best in the pounding surf. At one point, they turned toward us and waved their arms triumphantly, as if to say no waves could slow them down. Right behind them, a HUGE wave rose about about six feet in the air, and crashed down upon them. I'm not proud to say that Kathleen and I erupted into laughter.
Finally, I could take the wind no more. We headed back toward the family, where Mark refused to change clothes and insisted he wanted to eat first. He helped himself to a giant plate of pineapple, which the wind immediately sent flying. That put him off. He fixed another plate and brought it, shivering, to the table, where he covered it protectively. Between his teeth chattering and his cold body shaking, I don't know how he got any of it down.
I watched the family eat, guarding their plates, and occasionally chasing rogue parts of dinner across the windy sand. I watched Grant, who had leashed himself to the boogie board, run across the sand. The wind sent the board airborne, like a kite, and I wondered if Grant might go flying. I turned away just briefly, during which time Grant ran past me, whipping me in the head with his flying boogie board.
Mary made Mark a steak sandwich, and I made myself a chicken one. We each got approximately three bites down before -- you guessed it, our plates and food went flying.
At this point, we were all just laughing. It had become so outrageous, almost dangerous, that it was truly comical. Our Father's Day picnic was becoming hazardous, with plates, food, and other shrapnel regularly flying at us.
"When's dessert?" the kids asked, eying the pies Tim and Kathleen brought. At that point, Mary said, "Let's have dessert at home instead." And then, in less than two minutes, the picnic was broken down, and the wagon fully loaded.
And so began the reverse trip, similar to the trip there, but uphill. Mary was loaded down with chairs and backpacks, and Grant was running around. Mary gave him a backpack to carry, which made him unhappy. However, we Dinsdales are a hardworking bunch that insists on fairly dividing any and all work. We are also a compassionate group, so as 4-year-old Grant started crying about the backpack, no less than three family members admonished him to "suck it up."
Somehow, a few minutes later, he managed to give away his backpack and loudly announced, "Hey, now I don't have anything to carry!" I tossed him a giant towel and said, "Now you do!" His sister Gabi shook her head at him -- she knows that if you aren't gonna help, you don't announce it!
And so we arrived at Casa Dinsdale, our entourage of sandy, windblown family members. The air was completely still, balmy but not an ounce of wind in sight. It was like we'd returned to a completely different country.
We broke out the pies and alcohol (beer for the men, champagne for the women), and everyone retired to a safe place by gender or age (the kids to the playroom, the women to the front porch, the men up on the roof deck). We ate our dessert in peace, and laughed at our crazy picnic adventure.
At one point, I looked over at Mary, whose hair was windswept and just...well, crazy. It looked exactly the same as mine, and I couldn't stop laughing. It just reminded me that in my family, there's no such thing as a quiet, peaceful, uneventful family picnic.
It may not have been the most serene family outing, but then again, I don't have the most serene family, either.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
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