The new iPhone made it hard to text and drive. I was great at it with my old antique, slightly dysfunctional phone, but the fancy touch screen made it really hard to watch the road and type at the same time. But my backseat driver kept me in line. She always lets me know if I’m too close to cars, double checks over her shoulder for lane changes, opines on where I should park and notifies me if cars are stopping, whether I’m looking or not. I’m usually looking.
We pulled up to the resort in Daytona in her dad’s big F-150 and checked into the rooms. Her family was visiting the college her brother would attend and would be down to join us in a few hours. It was my second time visiting Florida, a few months after the first, and after a long summer in Oregon, away from my backseat driver, I was ready to be visiting again.
The beds were comfortable, with vividly colored sheets, probably to make the tourists from New York feel like they escaped to somewhere exotic. We laid for a while before going down to the pool.
Her family arrived in time for dinner. We went to the pool deck, set 10 feet above the beach. We chose a white table near the tiki bar. I love getting beer with her dad. My dad, a Nazarene pastor, has never touched alcohol to his lips. We've shared countless father and son memories -- hiking Half Dome, mountain biking in the hills by our house, skiing and snowboarding in Mammoth -- but we’ll probably never have a beer together.
The former fighter pilot ordered a Bass Pale Ale. I did too. The sun was low, giving the brew an ethereal golden-brown glow, the kind of lighting you want to take pictures in. My burger was delicious, my backseat driver was smiling, the beers were cold, the air was warm, breezy and salty and I didn’t have any work to do later that night. I guess that’s a vacation.
