I have been very fortunate to have travelled for much of my life and, ever the armchair sociologist, I have always delighted in noting how people choose to live in various locations as well as how they observe and perceive their local lifestyle compared to those enjoyed elsewhere. No matter where I am, I find people interesting. Seriously, they are downright fascinating, especially when observing them in their natural habitat.

Early in our relationship, a very telling conversation with Flight delved into our respective motivation to attend global airshows. When I admitted my interest was much more focused on the opportunity to interact with those who fly their respective nations’ defensive gear than on seeing the actual hardware itself, Flight then incredulously asked, “You mean you have no desire to crawl all over other countries’ aircraft to learn more about them?!” Before I could check my reaction, I blurted out, “Oh, dear God, no!” And with as much disdain as I have ever heard expressed by Flight, he pronounced, “Shame on you. You need to turn in your wings.”

When I was a junior officer based at NAS Whidbey Island, I was designated the Squadron Mining Officer, which meant I had to leave the pristine beauty of the Pacific NW to go to Ingleside, Texas, for a week of mine warfare training. Truth be told, the week-long escape to warmer climes away from the semi-oppressive relentless January rain sounded not unlike an all-expense paid vacation courtesy of Uncle Sam. A fellow in one of our sister squadrons was similarly tagged for the same boondoggle, so we traveled to Ingleside together and shared the cost of a rental car, to learn the best strategies to employ the U.S. Navy’s proven air delivery mining strategies.

Have you ever been to Ingleside, Texas?

It’s a different kind of place, as are most places I suppose, but Ingleside was unique compared to anywhere I had ventured to that point. Our daily training evolutions were held at the Mine Warfare Command, housed at Naval Station Ingleside, while our lodging accommodations were in Corpus Christi, where a large percentage of Navy pilots receive flight training. Although I could wax poetic on the distinctions between the various warfare communities in the Navy, I’ll just say there were many reasons we gladly stayed among the aviators in Corpus and drove daily to school in Ingleside.

Making the first of our morning transits to attend our course, we drove through a landscape in stark contrast with Whidbey Island (see stock photo of Whidbey below).

Where Whidbey topography is defined by at least as many striking shades of green as the Irish countryside (likely owed to similar precipitation patterns), Aransas Pass (the major water thoroughfare to cross between Corpus and Ingleside) was dully monochromatic in a pale burnt sienna crayon kind of way. The closest I had previously been to this part Texas was in my own advanced flight training in San Antonio. I had once traveled down to Corpus to visit some friends and, as transit took place at night, I had no idea what I had missed. Recently spoiled by the omnipresent beauty of the Pacific NW, I cynically thought to myself, “Not much, apparently…”

Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the sign heralding our crossing of the waterway before it zoomed by entirely. It took me a moment to sort out what I thought I had read and, laughing at myself, I shared with my fellow traveler, “I thought that sign said, ‘Rancid Ass.’” He whooped, “HA! Rancid Ass, Texas. That’s about right…”

Imagine my surprise when, hours later, we made a stop at Commissary to grab a few goodies for lunch. When I presented my check for payment, the kind woman at the register inspected my check and drawled, “Is this yer courrent ah-dress?”

“Yes, Ma’am, it is.”

She further commented, “Well, I gyess not everyone’s luckeeenough to live in TEXes…” Like I said, people are interesting.

Flash forward a couple of decades to our next stop on the Davista adventure: Mission Bay’s Campland on the Bay, where, upon our arrival, the spunky reservation agent piped, “Welcome to Paradise!” Paradise, huh? Hmmmm…

Although Flight captured the dismal surroundings quite accurately here, there are a few aspects of our stay at Mission Bay that I would like to highlight. While Flight was away, there seemed a dearth of immediately local activities for our Flight-less gaggle to explore. Having reinjured my neck, my range of motion was limited, as was my patience.

After spending the day squirreled away in Davista, following a 30 minute reprieve at the Park’s arcade (see below), and having heard enough of the dueling alternating bouts of “offensive” (Keeper’s word, not mine, although I certainly agree) rap and equally unpalatable country music, I pronounced, “Okay, pack up. We need to leave. Now.” And we trundled into the Subaru to explore the local National Park Service Memorial out at Point Loma.

“But, Mom, why do we have to leave?” I was asked as we were driving away from paradise. “Well, my friend, you know how Mom loves bagpipes? I know that not everybody does.  In fact, believe it or not, some people find them downright annoying. Because I understand that, I would never play my music so loud as to bother others. It’s just basic courtesy, which our neighbors are not demonstrating, and I can’t be around that any more right now. Let’s go check out Point Loma.” Which we did, sadly only 30 minutes before the Ranger Station closed and we had to vacate sans Junior Ranger Badges. We were there for so short a time, I didn’t even take any pictures.  Bummer. And somehow on par for the Mission Bay experience.

However, there was one shining experience I have to note. Before commuting out for his trip, Flight had shown the kids the RV Park’s expansive arcade, which was on the scale of a Chuck E Cheese pizza joint (another of my least favorite establishments), and promised they would have some time to spend their money playing games. After many requests to go, I finally acquiesced and we wandered over to the arcade.

This particular arcade has advanced far beyond quarters or tokens and instead uses a card system to keep track of both your funds and your winnings so you can spend and “cash out” your prizes on your own timeline. The catch is that each card costs $1. However, if you put at least $5 on the card, you get your money back. Ever since learning the system with Flight, the kids had been scheming and came up with the following plan. They decided they would get only one card to share in order to minimize the cost. Furthermore, they would each put different amounts of money on the card based on what they had and wanted to spend, and then keep track of who spent what as they went. I’m pretty sure they hadn’t even considered how they’d divvy up their winnings at the end of their arcade time.

Imaging all the ways this could go horribly wrong, I thought, “Hoo boy, how’s THIS going to go down…”

Getting the card was pretty straightforward and they easily loaded it with their money, but what happened next was the first of my surprises. The older two walked WoodSprite around the arcade to help her identify all the games she might be interested in playing and, based on her fund contribution, which ones she would want to play and in what order.

Had I been more cynical, I might have thought this was a ploy to get her to waste her money and/or time to allow the other two more of either, however it was actually the demonstration of two older siblings truly wanting to help their little sister get the most enjoyment from her share in the entertainment. Surprising me further, they then graciously took turns and played only the games whose fees exactly totaled what they each respectively put into the pot, cheering each other on and offering consolation after any less than satisfactory performances.

And then they were out of funds.

Knowing I would not serve as an ATM and happy to call the experience complete, they joyfully took their collective, albeit meager, winnings to the prize-dispensing machine. Armchair sociologist hat on and observing the unfolding events as a non-participant, I thought, “And here’s where it breaks down…” Before they inserted their card to cash out, I witnessed the three of them peruse all the options and then engage in a well though out discussion of the pros and cons of each potential prize before coming to a decision.

Sound bites of what I heard follow.

“Well, if we get the candy, we couldn’t get something else and I don’t think we need the sugar.”

“I think we should get something so we can remember our time in the arcade.”

“Well, we could get one finger puppet, but that means only one. Is everyone okay with that?”

“WoodSprite, would you take care of the finger puppet?”

“Sure!”

“I think that seems like the best idea.”

And to my delightful surprise, their follow through was perfect. I’m sorry, what just happened?!

When Flight returned from his trip, I couldn’t wait to share what I had witnessed. It was very encouraging to observe how close our kids are becoming through our travels and how they truly and mindfully look out for each other. Losing a wallet, dueling music at obscene decibels, tweaking my neck, one fewer Junior Ranger badge, Spring Break in PB in October, and planning to pack out of Davista for several days while her roof is repaired, all fade to a far less egregious hue when basking in this shining moment. And, we are the proud owners of a new finger puppet to remind us of the best of our time in paradise.

There’s a lesson to be learned from our stay at Mission Bay, I know there is.  I’ve had to tweak this post repeatedly, though, as I kept going in unwanted directions.  It was a weird stay.

First of all, how we ended up there.  Weekends are tricky and require reservations – this we’ve now known for a while.  I had booked the Coronado Beach Cottages on Naval Air Station North Island months ahead of time for next week, and considered this a major coup.  I hadn’t, however, been able to find state parks or military sites remotely in the area for the weekend prior.  The private campgrounds seem to be always the last to get reserved, and I was able to find a couple on Mission Bay.  My impression of Mission Bay before staying there was that it’s kind of a water sports and BBQing-on-the-beach mecca.  Vacationing families from out of town, wake boarders, bouncing beach balls, etc.  Sea World is there, there are lots of little beaches and passages, and the water is protected and calm.  Here’s how it looks from the air.

Campland was the most expensive of the RV campgrounds there, so I opted for the splurge, reasoning that since I would be gone part of the time on my work trip, why not ensure Tacco and the kids were in the best place possible?

When we pulled up to the gate and checked in, the woman behind the counter was over-the-top enthusiastic, describing all the amenities, assuring us that after this visit we’d become regulars, and topping it off with “welcome to paradise!”  Paradise!  Wow!

So in we drive, eyes wide.

It wasn’t paradise, at least at first blush.

Now I’m not going to claim it was the opposite, it certainly wasn’t.  Our (quite pricey) spot, however, was a little section of parking lot with a small patch of dirt next to it and bordered by a chain link fence.  OK, not a problem, we thought, it must be all about the amenities.  Or the clientele.  And at least there was no one parked next to us.

It wasn’t the amenities. It wasn’t the clientele.

We walked down to the ersatz beachfront – it was an actual beach, but the sand had clearly been trucked in and dumped on top of the muddy shore to make it so — past a smattering of RVs that had seen better days and appeared to have been parked for quite some time.  It captured neither the kids’ nor my imagination, so after a couple minutes we walked right back.

Essentially it was this, and I’ll skip to the summary rather than dragging out the play-by-play – my impression is that this is an RV park built around a bar.  The bar was mostly outdoors and held the position of honor in the center of the park, and seemed to get most of the park’s activity.  Unfortunately, depending on how you look at it I suppose, the activity was lazy day drinking.  And night drinking.  Lots of beer and cocktails.  All while the few kids ran around on the grass field between the bar and the water or rode their bikes around while wearing rubber-mohawk-spiked helmets.  There was a park-wide PA system that would occasionally exhort us all to get out there for happy hour with Brandi, or Crystal, or whichever bartendress had the serve-booze-to-the-RVers watch.

Is that an overly negative picture I’ve painted?  Have we become uptight?  I wouldn’t have thought so, but my description makes me wonder.  People were undoubtedly enjoying themselves.  And I don’t intend to imply that everyone there was loud and drunk – I certainly wouldn’t call it raucous.  Yet when I joined Tacco and the kids during my layover after taking the red-eye back to Boston and then operating the flight back to San Diego, she was a bit bleary-eyed from the loud country music and ‘80s hair bands that had dueled late into the night and kept her awake.  She had to explain to the kids that it wasn’t cool to keep your neighbors up with your music (unless you’re in college, where it’s encouraged).

I guess it just wasn’t our place.  There’s nothing especially wrong with it objectively.  I’m not specifically against any of the elements I described in themselves, and I could imagine circumstances under which someone looking for a place to party lazily for a weekend with friends and like-minded RVers would find it paradise.  ish.  There’s a marina with water toys for rent.  There’s a decent playground.  There are at least two pools, though I never saw anyone swimming.  There’s an arcade, in which our kids had an excellent time killing an hour or so, and did an especially good job cooperating with each other (Tacco will cover that story I think).  And the San Diego sun.  It’s just… it didn’t feel like a “splurge.”

I took one picture there, and one only.  It’s Woodsprite “playing” alone by filling a few of her beach/sand toys with dirt.  Dirt.  My thought when I took it was “Has it come to this?  This is what I’m providing for our kids to amuse themselves?”  That’s overblown I know, but remember I was just coming off San Elijo’s wild ride of emotions.  I knew we could do better.

So here’s a lesson learned.  I’ve realized upon analysis of this particular stay that I’m far more critical of places that I leave the family when I have to depart for work, even if I’m departing for a short time.  Seems obvious when I read what I just wrote, but it’s new to me, revelation-wise.  Questionable places we can deal with, but I’d like to be with them when we do so.  The corollary here is that the private RV parks (see my completely unscientific breakdown of the various types here) have their own widely varying character when compared to the state or national parks, and a bit of in-depth research is advisable, particularly if I’ll be leaving the family there.

Let me take a turn toward the positive – I did make an attempt to create a few good memories there by renting a Wave Runner for bit while I was with the family during my layover.  It could only carry 3 people at a time, but it’s hard not to sport a smile when zipping over the water or doing tight 360s.  And the kids loved it!  Me too.  I’ve got a long history with personal watercraft, though I’ve managed to avoid owning one.  I got to go out with each kid individually and each combination of two kids, as well as letting Keeper drive it some.  Lots of hootin’ and hollerin’ and “do it again!”  It was a blast for all involved.  Almost, that is.  Unfortunately my victory was dampened by the last run, in which I had Tacco and Woodsprite aboard.  Though 90% of the watery circuit was unbridled joy, I managed to take my very last turn too tightly combined with hitting a swell at exactly the wrong spot, and tweaked Tacco’s already soreness-prone neck.  My victory took on an asterisk.  I hate to see my wife in pain.

Equally tricky to characterize was our decision to grab fish tacos in Pacific Beach rather than stay at the RV park and BBQ.  Ridiculously tasty fish tacos are one of San Diego’s culinary fortés – generally there are several varieties available, from shark to albacore to scallop to wahoo and everything in between, all completely fresh.  Tacco and I had both had memorable fish taco experiences in PB back in the day, so we figured we’d create a new one with the kids.  We jumped in the car and made the short drive.

In our (lengthy?) absence, however, something had changed in PB.  Possibly it’s we who changed, but we did not expect to see Spring Break in October.  I had remembered semi-quaint open air taco bars that tempted you to linger over a pitcher of beer and tacos for hours while watching the sun set over the ocean.  Was I thinking of somewhere else?  Maybe I was just much younger then.  This was the opposite of quaint, or even semi-quaint, with every restaurant and bar (none of which looked familiar) packed standing room only with dolled-up 20-somethings on the prowl or stumbling into the boardwalk.  The music was booming and Spring Break-y as well.  Despite our brutally long search for a parking spot and several-block hike to the beachfront, we realized fairly quickly that this was no place for a family and we punted.  Another lesson learned, though this one I’m not sure we could have foreseen.  We did manage to persevere and find some good off-beach tacos on the way back to the RV though.

Icing on the cake to follow… After working the redeye flight back to Boston that night (post tacos) and turning right back around onto the next flight back to San Diego, we tidied up camp and bolted.  I was tired to say the least, having spent most of the last 12 hours on an airplane, and Tacco was reasonably DONE with Campland.  We had arranged an appointment to have Davista’s roof fixed after the Carpinteria Captain Crunch incident, and had to drive 45 minutes to the north to drop it off before packing ourselves and everything we needed for the upcoming week into the minivan I’d rented to get me back from the airport and assist with the gear shuffle.  It was there that I noticed that my wallet wasn’t in any of the two or three places I normally keep it.  Not to worry, I thought, it’ll turn up shortly.

It did not turn up.

Losing one’s (full – driver’s license, military ID, pilot license, credit cards, cash…) wallet is a massive pain under the best of circumstances; these were far from the best of circumstances.  All I can advise, with the utmost urgency, is that if you ever decide to take a trip like this, please, please do not lose your wallet.

Hours of agonizing, phone calls, and step-retracing led me to the 95% conclusion that I had left it in the campsite when we departed, though no one had turned in a lost wallet at Campland.  We returned to the campsite once we had checked in at Coronado and found another RV parked there, which was odd given that there were so many vacant spots, but at least I had someone to ask if they’d seen the wallet.  No one appeared home in the RV, so I left a note on their door with my phone number explaining what had happened and asking that they please call / text if they had any information.  And that was that, nothing heard.

This was my stupid mistake, I know this and I take full responsibility.  But!  But… I can’t help but think that if someone left such a note on my door, I would at the very least send a text saying “sorry, didn’t find anything.  Best of luck.”   I can’t imagine why they would’ve made no attempt to communicate at all.  Unless…

Argh, never mind.  Let’s go to Coronado, I heard it’s AMAZING there.