Logbook: Seasons of Summer

Time goes by pretty fast, if you let it. Recently my parents took their boat to Essex Island for a long weekend and my brother and his fiancée drove up by car and bunked up at the popular Griswold Inn (known locally as The Gris). I knew it was an overdue family hangout but I was surprised when my mom mentioned that it was the first time we’d all been together since Christmas (leave it to a mother to know things like that).

The four-day weekend would offer plenty of time to catch up. As the weekend grew closer, I would check the forecast, which looked lousy. (Side rant: Is it just me or have forecasts gotten worse than ever?) I worried about whether our sleepy town of Essex would offer enough to do. But therein lies the beauty of Essex, you don’t come for the attractions, you come for the escape.

One of our main “outings” as a family, was dinner at the Gris. That old, dimly lit bar is home to many powerful memories, some that are safe for publication and others that are best kept to myself (Sea Shanty night has been known to bring out an inner pirate). I will share just a couple. In my earliest memory there, I was maybe seven years old. I was bleary-eye-tired and bored to tears while my parents and their friends laughed and relished the live music, which included an older gentleman who played—I kid you not—spoons on his knee. I was three cans of Sprite to the wind and prayed for it all to end so I could retreat to my berth.

The next most powerful memory was unwinding with my and Karen’s families the night we got engaged. It was a proper party with singing and dancing and toasting to the spoon player of long ago. I revisit that night in my mind often.

Fast forward six years to this most recent family dinner; my brother and his soon-to-be-wife arrived primmed and polished and freshly showered, as did my parents. I managed to swap my sweaty light blue t-shirt for a dark blue one. Karen carried a diaper bag and I held Connor’s hand while also carrying a bag that held his toddler potty–because damned if I was going to let a night at the Gris derail his potty-training progress (I needed that diaper money for fuel after all). I looked at my brother and his fiancée, both with cocktails in hand, and said, “We were you, literally six years ago. It goes fast.” I lifted the child potty to the air for effect.

It was a great meal full of laughter. As I finished my second glass of wine, in-between three potty breaks, I looked at Connor who was curled up in Karen’s lap, his eyes dropping. “And you,” I said quietly to my son as the live band blared. “I was you 26 years ago, just a few tables over though.” We left shortly after, bound for bed, while my brother and his future wife headed off to the other bar in town.

Over the next few days we swam, walked, caught catfish, grilled out, drank and talked. Sufficiently caught up, we settled into nice long pauses where we simply enjoyed each other’s company. I concluded the weekend with two prevailing thoughts. One: How lucky I am to pass on my own happy childhood to Connor and how lucky my brother and I are to be able to introduce the boating life—and Essex—to our wives. And second, why don’t we do things like this more often? I know how busy life can get, but as summer flies by, I’m realizing I can’t afford not to make time with my family a priority; especially after being reminded how fast the years can go.

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This article originally appeared in the November 2023 issue of Power & Motoryacht magazine.

Source: https://www.powerandmotoryacht.com/column/logbook-seasons-of-summer