Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield Read Free Book Online Page A

gray curves still sparkling from a new wash. Between mouthfuls of Cheerios, we helped him carry out chairs, blankets, straw bags filled with towels and clothes, and the orange-and-green-striped umbrella with one corner bent up from a previous gust. Everything was methodically loaded into the open trunk and topped off with two huge black inner tubes. Dad said he had a “system.” And truth be told, if Mom had asked him to pack the swing set, he could have made it fit.
    Finally he loaded us, like a human crossword puzzle— Mom, Dad, and Auntie, single layer up front—my brother, sister, and I, with a friend for each, double layer in the back—and the two coolers tightly impacted under our legs, and we were off!
    The Olds rolled down the driveway out of the yard, and soon we were passing through downtown and onto the main highway. Everyone was chatting in a state of high excitement. At the halfway point we stopped for our picnic in a grove of tall pines that smelled wonderful. Mom always said that fresh air made you hungry, as she proudly passed out endless servings of food to her starving baby birds. And then it was off to the beach.
    When we arrived, the grown-ups set up the chairs and blankets while the kids raced for the water. Time floated between sand and sea on our salty air playground. Once in a while Mom would insist that my sister was turning blue and called her out of the water. She would sit, teeth chattering, wrapped in several large striped beach towels, just her red curly hair sticking out like a burning bush. Then back in the water she would go, with Mom pleading after her to put on suntan lotion. By late afternoon and many cries of “just one more swim,” it was time to head for home.
    Traffic was slow as we strained our eyes for the orange roof of the Howard Johnson’s take-out stand. Finally we rolled to a stop on the gravel parking lot and raced to save a picnic table. Dad would get in line and return loaded down with bent cardboard holders full of hot dogs, burgers, fries, and drinks. Gone in a blink, he would then get back in line, with six helpers, for ice cream cones. Sometimes he made a third trip when a scoop got accidentally licked onto the ground.
    As we sang rounds going home, Dad would sail the Olds into the final rotary. My sister, brother, and I would give each other secret looks as he went once completely around, twice completely around—tipping and squealing, we would yell, “Again, Daddy, again,” and with Mom and Auntie Bella begging him to stop, the captain of that happy ship would sail us around one more time.
    It was a perfect day!
    Avis Drucker

“And here’s the towels, and some books and magazines and food and . . . whoops, the kitchen sink!
Forgot I packed it!”
    Reprinted by permission of Stephanie Piro. © 2004 Stephanie Piro.

Day Trippin’
    I have no excuse. It was one of those mornings when the sunshine shimmers through the window like a thousand pixie sun dancers and all things seem possible. We were going on a six-hour, round-trip, one-day excursion with the family.
    We woke up the teenagers, walked the dog, fed the cats, woke up the teenagers again, piled a few necessities (pillows, blankets, books, games, food, drinks, two changes of clothing and shoes to match, enough electronic equipment to overload the capacitors in Silicon Valley) in the family high-mileage, fuel-efficient Conestoga, woke up the teenagers again, and an hour and a half after our new idea was born, jumped in the car and drove to the corner for breakfast.
    â€œTell me again why we’re doing this?” said Kid Number One, fourteen years old. Nothing makes sense to him except Biggie Fries and Crazy Taxi.
    â€œIt’s a family thing. We’re going to Charleston. We’ll have fun.”
    â€œI can have fun here.” Kid One thinks fun spurts from his PlayStation controller like water from a SuperSoaker.
    â€œWe’re going to