Marianne and I had been married 25 years when I had a brainstorm: As a family Christmas gift to ourselves, why not a tropical vacation in Gulf Shores, Alabama?
In 1997, finally, we had some disposable income for airfare for us and for Jackie and her younger sister, Janet, still teenagers, and for Mike, away at the university. Or he could meet us directly from Champaign.
Our entire lives, we never dreamed of leaving Chicago for the holidays. But the thought of palm trees, warm sand and the smell of the sea in December had suddenly become an obsession. I imagined our opening gifts on a hotel balcony, watching the sun melt into the Gulf of Mexico.
Lest the grandparents pitch a fit, we visited both their houses on Christmas Eve. And on Christmas Day, we boarded a morning flight to paradise.
The Boeing 737 was half-empty. Both girls found window seats, and Marianne and I had our own aisle. She smiled and held my hand during takeoff, and I silently congratulated myself as she closed her eyes.
Two and a half hours later, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Pensacola. Local time is 11:47 p.m., and the temperature is 39 degrees.”
It was still early, and I assured everyone it would warm up by the time we drove the rental car 40 miles west to Gulf Shores. Anything was better than the snow and ice back home.
An hour later, after we checked into our third floor condominium rental on West Beach Boulevard, Marianne made a reservation at a waterfront restaurant for five people since Mike was scheduled to arrive at 5 p.m.
Though we had urged him to fly with us, he opted for a road trip in his new pre-owned Hyundai. Like many college men, including me at that age, he liked driving fast, in syncopation with the rhythms of Dire Straits or Metallica. But so glad we were at his eagerness to reunite with us and his doting sisters, we didn’t argue.
Unpacked, we headed down to the ocean and had the beach to ourselves. Waves surged head-high before tumbling and dissolving at our feet, inspiring Janet to do cartwheels, her fingers and toes grazing the foam.
Because we had left our coats at the condo, we were forced to turn back. But we made sure to grab them before leaving for dinner. Mike had yet to arrive, so we left him a message at the rental office. Cellphone use wasn’t widespread in 1997, but he might call from an oasis payphone.
Sea-n-Suds sat on stilts facing the Gulf. It wasn’t serving outside because of the weather, but we got a table by the window.
The girls wanted to try Gator Bites, and I had blackened redfish. Marianne ate half her baked flounder and saved the rest for Mike.
Still no word when we checked back at the office, and the manager described how upstate was experiencing record cold and icy roads, some of which were closed.
“I hope he has the sense to stop at a motel,” said Marianne, though we both knew that was unlikely once he set his mind.
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Back at the condo, the girls declined to try out the hot tub downstairs. We watched a Christmas parade on TV instead, while Marianne read, occasionally peering out the window at the parking lot.
By 10 p.m., Marianne insisted on waiting outside. I went with, and we walked a mile along Beach Boulevard, watching for Mike’s car.
We headed back along the beach, braving the wind. But the sky was black and the ocean invisible, the sound of the surf the only proof it was there.
Out of all the nothingness, a squall erupted, and we ducked into the shell of a beach house that was either being built or torn down. We huddled close against a cinder block wall, silently wondering where Mike might be in all the rain and cold and dark, when Marianne tilted her head and whispered:
“What are we doing here? What were you even thinking?”
“Somebody will notify us if something happens,” I said.
I meant it as a comfort, but it filled her with urgency to return to our room.
When we opened the door, they were all on the couch: Jackie at left, her feet tucked under. Janet on the right. Mike in the middle, shirtless and in cargo shorts, staring at the two of us in our wet clothes.
“John-Boy is home,” Jackie said.
We stayed awake past midnight, prying information from our son, watching him eat reheated rice and flounder. He had been delayed near Greenville, Alabama, after the Hyundai skidded on a bridge and “tapped” a guardrail on the other side.
“It was not a big deal,” he said, and Janet punched him in the arm.
A wrecker winched the Hyundai back onto the road, and a state trooper sent him on his way.
“How much damage to the car?” I asked.
“Can we save it for tomorrow?” Marianne said. “We’ve all been up since 4.”
I took a deep breath. Everyone got quiet. Then this from Janet:
“Mike, we have the beach volleyball court to ourselves!”
“Awesome,” her brother said.
The next day was sunny, though still too cold. We watched the three kids play volleyball, later watching them splash in the Gulf despite the weather.
Mike told the girls about a restaurant where the waitstaff tosses you bread rolls. That’s where we dropped them off, while Marianne and I went down the street to a bistro where we could get a drink.
“Merry Christmas?” I said, raising my glass.
She smiled, shaking her head.
“Just promise, whatever your brainstorm, that our family will always be together on Christmas.”
David McGrath, an emeritus English professor at the College of DuPage, made that promise, and today he and Marianne, Mike, Jackie, Janet and some new additions to the family are together again for the 25th Christmas in a row since Gulf Shores. McGrath is also the author of “South Siders.” He can be reached at [email protected].
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