text: I didn’t want to go. June was long and busy and tiring with lots of lacrosse and school and other things I don’t enjoy. I didn’t want to add another activity to the ever-growing roster of things required to be a better parent that I am. I wanted the beach, books and a bar cart. So, I pawned it off on my mensch husband, who agreed to take our three monsters and my nephews. I think we threw the last two boys in for sport - the event being “how much could I pile on before my husband had a second heart attack?” I flee to a rainbow-colored chair with an ocean view and a cooler. I’m not even sure there was ice or a cup, but with prosecco and Juice Bombs, I am sure nothing required a cork screw or bottle opener. I sit with the sun on my face, ignoring my brother and sister-in-law. Meanwhile, the whack crew of seven made its way down the beach. The seventh was John Schmidt. John was responsible for this whole adventure. It started when he asked my mom, “if the kids would like to go jet skiing”. I obviously said no. My kids may have loved it, but school was over and it was time to be rid of all commitments that included my involvement. My mom asked me about the jet skiing no less than 19 times in the days that followed. Classic Janet. She had clearly said, yes, long before I answered in the negative. She knew I’d cave, because she knew I always caved, because she had a way of always getting me to cave. She would never have to go back on her word to John - due to her ninja like abilities to always get what she wanted, without ever raising her voice. Everyone thought she was laid back and flexible, never quite realizing her stealth skills. Not quite passive aggressive...more like quiet-aggressive. Jesse, disrupts the silence by announcing, “I feel bad for Aaron” (the mensch). Jen, his wife, who I can usually count on to be my partner in crime, sides with my brother. I don’t feel bad at all. I am finally sitting, in the fresh, salty air; bottle in hand instead of the steering wheel of my minivan driving, always driving. But, I know I will look like an asshole if I don’t go on the kid-Aaron-John-wave runner-check. So, in an effort to look like I have a heart, I join them on the journey down the beach. We find the kids - all with loopy jet ski smiles. My other brother has also joined in the joy. Aaron hops off and exchanges his life jacket with Jesse in return for the promise of another happy face racing by at 30 mph. Jesse pulls my twins around the ocean on a tube and then passes the torch to his wife. I want none of this. But peer pressure works even when you are 50 years old. I hop aboard the car in the ocean, now pulling my daughter and nephew on a tube. I figure if I can get this fun out of the way, I can finally return to my beach chair. John steps on the gas. We take off and it feels fun and free. The wind, the sun, and the speed. We are out to sea. The tubing rope loosens. The two kids go flying off the back as the tube sheds its cover and pops like a birthday balloon. Before I know it, the rope is wrapped around the motor and nearly snaps my leg in half, which now resembles raw chicken. The jet ski is upside down. We are all in the water and the rope is so twisted underneath, that even I - an expert rainbow loom rubber band separator - know there is no hope of us salvaging this ride and getting back to shore. It’s all fun and games for about 12 seconds. I should have known there was a deeper reason I didn’t want to go jet skiing. It’s taken me until now to put my finger, or bloody leg on it. It’s because, with my family, there is always a story. I have never answered the question “how was ____ [insert family fun]”, simply “fun” or “good". There is always a long convoluted story - a rental house on Fire Island that has bugs and leaks and used wet towels that for some reason we don’t leave, my mom trapped in an elevator while in a wheelchair well into her hospice stay, my brother lost on the ski mountain, another brother skiing into a tree losing both his teeth only to have them shoved back in by the ski patrol, a house we are trying to buy where the owner won’t leave until we smoke them out with a lien on the house, my daughter’s front teeth knocked out on the ice - the gymnast, not my hockey player, or at very least the promise of a minor concussion just before a trip for any of them, be it at sport or on hoverboard. Our family activities always have an apex that is more like a mudslide near the top of the mountain, rather than a victorious ascent. They end with me being stuck in the ocean for three hours waiting for marine coast patrol and praying that Jaws is just a movie. John tells my daughter and nephew to - no joke - swim across the channel back to shore. They are 12 and 13. The tide is on its way out. But I am too shell-shocked to think straight. I also feel like I can’t leave John stranded in the ocean. I am not sure why he leapfrogged my family as my priority, but losing half a pint of blood makes you do funny things. I have no phone but at least John does and has enough battery to call the sea rescue. We wait on hold for what feels like days but is probably more like 53 minutes (but who’s checking?) North Carolinians are on island time. After waiting on hold, we wait some more, and are then told they will get there - with no time estimate other than before dark. I tread water and see some movement out of the corner of my eye. It is my daughter and nephew and not a shark. I thank the shark gods first and then the width of the channel for keeping the kids from attempting to swim across it. I hobble into mom mode and find someone willing to take them back to shore. I pray for the second time in 20 years. This time that the stranger is not a secret human trafficker. As the sun starts to go down, I realize it’s “eat what you kill out here” - literally, well, actually I hope not. I have put in enough time with John to feel like he can’t possibly tell my mom I am a terrible person. I flag down several boats. But, with my scary raw chicken leg-leg - which at this point actually looks a million times better from the hours of salt water - and frantic arm waving, I don’t get a lot of takers. Eventually a group of four men agree to take me back to shore. I pray for the third time today, hoping they are not serial killers or criminals or human traffickers. I am pretty sure I am okay, they are probably just New York state-tax evaders, since they look more like investment bankers. But, all of a sudden I am very religious. I get back to shore. I have never been so happy to be on land. I see my daughter and nephew and wonder if I should have left them to swim the channel, when my daughter starts making fun of how crazy I look - sunburned, bloody and shivering. I see my husband, brother, sister-in-law, some of the kids, all waiting for me. A few of them have smartly returned home to escape another story. But, a whole bunch of them sat at the end of the island waiting for me, trying to bring me back. They asked the boaters that took Layla and Cole to the island if they would return to pick me up. The guys said no, in the true spirit of friendly southerners. My family flagged down beach patrol - who apparently see no need to think outside the box. People stranded in the ocean are outside their jurisdiction. They prefer to just drive back and forth on the beach in their cool jeeps. My brothers had it out with some old ladies who said John was too close to shore and felt like we deserved what we got - the women wanted beach patrol to take away John’s license - luckily that is also out of beach patrol’s job description. My crazy family, with our crazy stories and crazy dysfunctional set up, all waited for me, and tried to get me home. Somehow, they are love me despite my being a giant pain 95% of the time. I guess it turns out I like it all - the stories, the crazy, the gaggle of kids. It sure keeps life interesting. Mostly, the stories are memories, happy and funny and ridiculous. And when I miss my mom so much it hurts, a funny story about her making me save egg cartons for “Steve the Greek” - their neighbor with a chicken farm behind an old strip mall, the absurdity of her ability to make me save them while hospice is fixing her morphine pump, they make me laugh. I would go on any jet ski in the world if it would bring her back. I’d even wait out the rest of the time in the water with John Schmidt. It’s all fun and games until you go to a wonderfully, long storied, Fa-go-po-pi family gathering. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Well, I guess I would like my leg to look like it used to...but upon seeing it, it does give many chances to tell this long, convoluted story, and remind me of that time my mom got me to do just one more thing using her secret spell.