Well, the Pinewood Derby is officially over, and while Mark didn't place in any of the top spots, it was still a resounding success. His car looked good, the wheels turned (but didn't fall off) and it wasn't a square block.
We arrived at the park early. There was a three-step process to complete before you could actually turn your car in to race. Mark ran to the first station, Pictures, and scrawled his info illegibly on a card. "What's my den name?" he asked, as though he had no part in naming it.
"The Cobra Patrol," I reminded him. He promptly scribbled "Cobra Control."
"PATROL," I corrected. "Not 'control.'"
"Whatever," he answered, then wrote his car's name was "Shine," the phonetic spelling for "Shiny." Or maybe it was the French pronunciation, who knows.
It was on to the second station, triage. Mark weighed his car, which was underweight. We glued on weights until it hit the 5 ounce mark, then took it over to the final weigh-in/check in station. Final weight: 5.05 ounces.
"It's a little overweight," the man told us. Taking off a weight would bring it in under, so he sent us back to triage to get some holes drilled into it.
I watched sadly as the man drilled five holes into Shiny's beautifully-painted underbelly, but it didn't bother Mark. He was more interested in the handful of stickers he'd swiped from the check-in station.
It was back to check-in, where Shiny made weight and was placed on a large wooden table full of cars. There were some really creative cars -- one kid showed me his car, shaped like a hot dog. I saw a pencil car, a tank, a dragon, and even a bobsled car with four bobsledders in it. They were so cool!
We had an hour to kill until the first race, so Mark ran off to play with the other scouts. I helped our den with the concession stand, first rolling hot dogs, then working in the booth.
Mark took turns working in the booth as well. He couldn't stand it -- in addition to the hot dogs, chips and drinks, the table was loaded with boxes of candy. It held every kind of sour, sugar-dipped, neon-colored candy possible. If Mark couldn't eat it, he could at least be close to it, and help other kids choose their cavities -- I mean, candy.
I did kick him out at one point, however, when he tried to charge a mom $1000 for a hot dog. He wouldn't give up his post until I bought him a Charms Pop, and then he took off without telling anyone, leaving the cash box wide open on the table. Luckily, the Cub Scouts are an honest group.
Mark's first race went well; he scored a respectable second place, and quickly followed with a third place. That was in races 17 and 18; Shiny didn't race again until Race 73, so Mark ran back to the park where his friends were all wielding giant sticks.
I found him an hour later, all sweaty and dishevelled. "We're playing battles," he informed me. "Right now the Russians are battling the Native Americans. Guess who's winning?" I guessed incorrectly.
The races went quickly, and soon it was time for the finals. But before that started, the Pack Master reiterated one of the Scouts most important mottoes: Leave no trace. He sent the Scouts around the park to pick up trash, and each Scout returned with one piece of trash and seven big sticks.
"Wow, there's nothing boys like better than throwing rocks and collecting big sticks, huh?" I said to Mark, pointing out the obvious.
"And looking at dead animals," he added. Which reminded him about a dead squirrel somebody had seen. He ran off to find it.
The day finally ended at 3 p.m. Mark and I climbed onto our bikes, swerved around a group of menacing geese, and headed home, exhausted. It's a lot of work racing cars and selling hot dogs, but it was a blast.
After a week of crazy rainstorms, we were ready to get outside in the sunshine this weekend. So when my cousin Kathleen invited us on a hike, we jumped.
We drove up to Rancho Palos Verde to hike down to the tide pools. Unfortunately, it was high tide and the pools were completely covered, but that only slowed us down a little.
We first drove to the very top of the road. The view was spectacular, even though the sheer cliffs dropped suddenly. There was no safety rail, and I'm terrified of heights, so I kept a safe distance. Mark did the same, and though he tried to play tough, I could tell the edge made him nervous. Especially when a much smaller kid went racing toward it.
"There's a humongous cliff right there!" Mark warned him. "You better slow down!"
I just smiled at Cautious Mark. He doesn't visit much.
We headed down the mountain to the trails. We sent Tim and Mark down the trail first, and when we got down a bit, we saw them perched on a tiny overhang. I almost had a heart attack immediately.
"Tim will keep him safe," Kathleen assured me, but I was more worried about the path I was standing on -- it was a foot wide and had a 150 drop to the pounding ocean below.
I tried to watch the boys traverse the path back to us, but it was so nerve-wracking, I couldn't look. I was afraid my nervous energy might freak Mark out and make him slip.
Once they were safely back on the trail, Mark scampered away. He climbed the mountain to our left, a massive wall of crumbling red clay and dusty rocks. He scooped up every rock he could find and heaved it off the cliff. (I've learned that in Boyland, there's absolutely nothing more satisfying than throwing rocks.) I watched and tried not to cry out nervously every time he stepped too close to the edge.
Kathleen and Tim strolled down the trail, and I stood back as Mountain Goat Mark climbed the mountain. He was having the best time.
"This is the most exciting day of my entire life!" he called out to me, brushing red clay off himself. I just smiled. His happiness was infectious.
Pretty soon we made it down to the beach. Mark was thrilled to see the entire beach was made up of rocks -- he immediately started chucking them into the sea.
I was thrilled to see the waves. From the top of the cliff, they didn't look that big, but from the beach, they were enormous. I swear, they must've been 10-15 feet high, continuously crashing against the shore.
We watched wave after wave breaking against the cliffs, and marvelled at them. They never slowed down -- the bay was white and foamy from the constant rough water. After watching the waves for a good 40 minutes, we hiked back up the mountain.
Mark threw rocks at the mountain on the way up, and I warned him repeatedly to be careful. He sighed, "Oh, Mom, stop worrying!" and I stood there for a moment, silently agreeing with him. I would've stood there longer, if not for the sudden sharp pain in my shoulder.
I saw Mark cover his mouth in horror. "I didn't mean to do that!" he shouted, as I watched the offending rock bounce off my arm.
Kathleen corrected him, calling out, "What you meant to say was 'Sorry, Mom! Are you okay?' Right?"
"Sorry, Mom, are you okay?" he echoed. I assured him I was, but that he'd better start running. He complied.
Kathleen, Tim and I made our way up slowly. I was enjoying the beautiful view, and Kathleen and Tim were following Mark's example, and throwing rocks over the cliffs.
When I reached the top of the hill, I was greeted by my moments-earlier hyperactive son doing this:
"Let me in the car," he begged. "I need some warmness!"
Since sunset was only a few minutes away, we decided to wait and watch the sun go down. It was as beautiful as we'd imagined it would be.
Mark was exhausted from all the running and lifting/throwing rocks. I was just content with such a great afternoon, and grateful at how much fun Mark had.
Kathleen and I thought he'd whine about the steep path, but instead he had embraced and enjoyed it.
"We have to come back here again, Mom," he said sleepily from the back seat.
"We will," I promised. "We will."
