Driving Confessions - Redux

"It was just an old plywood boat
With a '75 Johnson with electric choke.
A young boy, two hands on the wheel -
I can't replace the way it made me feel.
And I would turn her sharp
And I would make it whine.
He'd say, "You can't beat the way a old wood boat rides."
Just a little lake cross the Alabama line,
But I was king of the ocean
When Daddy let me drive." - Alan Jackson, "Drive"

We've got work to do out the wazoo this weekend. Today started for me at 5:30 - it feels good to sit down for a minute and take a break (until my husband discovers I am not in there helping him. . .)

Yesterday, we carpe'd our diem. An early and productive morning and a few changed appointments, two of three willing teens with no work or plans or guests, calm seas, a quick lunch at Jerry's Drive-In all added up to our being on the water in our cozy boat by two.

Even though it was a little bumpy on the way to the pass, it was a nice ride. The Gulf was 'capping, so we cruised over toward the "Sand Pile." Sometimes I stand on the little sand bar/island off of Ft. McRee and gaze out over the breathtaking view and say to myself, I LIVE in a Corona commercial!!!!!

We fished, we floated (watch out for the jellies! Don't ask me how I know. . .)we talked and giggled, we made drip castles and watched the Hermie Races as Apollo cruised by in his golden ride (way too fast, in my opinion!)

"We need ice cream!" my five year-old decided. So we packed it up, cranked it up and headed to Quietwater. Flounders has an outdoor bar with music and a playground, and my son likes to walk down to Hooters to get a coke, so we docked there.

The baby got her push-pop, the big kids cleaned up on candy, and Mommy got her Margarita. . . all was right with the world. (And "hi" to Ms. Moye and Mr. Berrian - the kids and I really enjoyed talking with y'all!)

On the way home, my son and husband stood shoulder to shoulder (I can't believe how tall that boy is!) with the younger version of the older one driving the boat - we three girls were up on the front with our hair flying when my 15 year old daughter grinned and started singing: "It was painted red, the stripe was white. . . eighteen feet, from bow to stern light. . . " The five year-old jumped in and soon we had the whole Floatin' Moron Tablenacle Choir revved up.

The daylight was hanging on for all it was worth to the blue-gold water, the smell of salt and sunscreen was in the air and four of the five people I love most in the world were contained in a twenty-by-eight space singing together.

"Maybe one day they'll reach back in their file
And pull out that old memory
And think of me and smile. . ."

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