Rolling south through rural Alabama on State Route 1, I looked to the driver-side mirror. Beyond bicycle tires spinning on the rear rack, I watched as a large SUV barreled up the left lane with a 21-foot boat in tow.
Julie and the kids were asleep amid the debris of a fast-food lunch, and as the man in the driver seat pulled even, we gave each other the nod. Over his sleeping wife’s bare legs, propped up on the windshield, we found tacit camaraderie. In sunglasses and ball caps, we were brothers in this great Southern summer migration to the Gulf of Mexico.
I was sure he noticed my work. Packing the family truckster for such beach vacations is an art form. Like grilling meat or mowing lawns, it is an outward expression of your dad skills, a badge of honor for the father who successfully crams and lashes a whole week’s worth of family fun into and on top of the vehicle.
I felt satisfied when I pulled out of the driveway that morning. With bikes on the back and a luggage-loaded kayak on the roof, there was even a small slice of daylight still visible in the rearview. Never mind that my son would ride seven hours with a crab pot in his lap.
But as the boat attached to that SUV rolled past, it left me insecure. This man had taken it to a whole new level. Not only did he have a big boat to take on vacation, he had a big boat packed full of beach toys and bicycles, paddleboards, umbrellas and coolers. I slowed and let him move ahead, hoping my wife wouldn’t wake to see my shame.