Serendipity in the surf and sand

WE’RE ON OUR porch, the baby and I, planning our escape. We’ve had it with cooking shows and family time. Last night, an argument over sleepovers woke bald eagles in tall trees 100 miles up the coast. When no one’s looking, the baby and I plan on just walking away.

“You go first,” I tell him.

“Me?” he says.

“I’ll be right behind you,” I say.

He is 2 now. When I comb his hair, pixie dust falls to the ground around his feet. His life so far is pretty much a fairy tale. Much like mine.

“I’ll bring some deodorant,” I tell him, “and a compass.”

“What about Mom?” he wonders.

“She’s on her own,” I say.

His mother is inside preparing for our week at the beach. As far as she knows, the baby and I are in the garage rounding up his sand toys and the Tonka front loader he loves. You can move a lot of sand with a Tonka front loader. You could build a luxury hotel. You could fill the wetlands and annihilate entire species of toads. It would take a while, but you could do it.

“You guys almost ready?” my wife says.

“Shhhhhhh,” I tell him.

“Mom!” he yells, immediately giving away our location.

Despite all I do for him, he is still putty in his mother’s hands. She calls; he answers. She asks him to pick up a sock; he does it. I explain to him that there is no future in following her every command. I tried it for a while and it just didn’t work out for me. Better to be your own man, I tell him.

“OK, let’s make a run for it,” I say.

“Mommmmmm!” he yells again.

You try to help a guy and look what happens. The baby and I were steps away from freedom when she drew him back into her silky web. I’ve seen it happen to stronger, bigger men. His older brother for one. It’s a spell she casts.

“What are you two doing?” she says from the door.

“As little as possible,” I say.

“I’m ready to go,” she says.

So are we. All we need to do is pack. There, we’re packed. I explain to the baby that all a guy needs to do is put on his sandals and he’s packed for the beach. I have a cigar in my shirt pocket, a song in my heart. Totally packed.

My wife is traveling light as well. All she’s packed for this five-day trip is:

* four suitcases

* a hat box full of pedicure supplies

* 200 towels

* nine kinds of sunscreen

* antivenom serum

* a Michael Crichton novel

* four kinds of fresh fruit

* a canned ham

* a pop-up tent

* a small sewing kit

* a bird-watching manual

* onion dip

* a Slinky

* three Ace bandages

* a lifeguard whistle

* forceps

* a giant thermos

* a GPS device

* lots and lots of matches

* a torn copy of JET magazine from November 2003

* bug repellent

* a fifth of tequila, nearly empty

* gum

She used to be ridiculous, but now my wife is a very light traveler. I think it was my gentle prodding that cured her of bringing too many things.

“I try not to over-pack,” she explains as I smush-cram a giant bag of marshmallows into the wheel well of the van.

“Of course,” I say, tearing a tendon.

It’ll be an interesting trip. We’re leaving our little Camelot for a week at a Malibu beach house. How we pulled this off, I’m still not sure. I plan to spend my days digging for buried treasure and my nights putting aloe on Pamela Anderson’s bony shoulders. I talked to the baby. He plans to dance in the waves and throw stones at movie stars.

“Can I bring a friend?” the little girl asks.

Sure, if I can. Paul is out of town, but I think Don will be back. Or maybe I’ll bring Chris. What I don’t want is some clown who only drinks wine all the time. It’s the beach. If you can’t pop a beer once in a while, stay home.

“Can I bring Irv?” I ask my wife.

“If I can bring Debbie,” she says.

Debbie? This is getting better by the moment. Surf’s up. Everybody in the car.

Chris Erskine can be reached at [email protected].