A Christmas Diary

It’s getting hard for me to tell what the weather is like outside. As my tires grind over bottomless depths of ocean, the backsplash of water laps against the underside of my car. The condensation spreading on my windshield creates the illusion of a foggy Atlantic night.

I shift into fifth, and set my cruise control. In the failing twilight, I cannot see the dolphins I am following. When I crack my window, I can still hear them chattering, so I know my bearing remains sound. Just before dawn I’ll recheck my star charts and correct my heading by sunrise.

…

My sister told me I should fly, but I can’t stand that rushing feeling in my gut during liftoff and landings. And I’ve never minded a long road trip, or ocean trip, as long as I could drive my car. I have hours worth of mixed CDs and books on tape, and my cooler is packed with juice boxes and turkey sandwiches. Six days on the water, and then I’ll be home!

…

I stop for gas at a small island station somewhere south of the equator. It’s a bit pricey, especially for the fish/nut blend they offer, but their restrooms were nice. I pick up a postcard for my sister, and purchase a few plastic tree-frogs that are supposedly native to the station. Maybe the kids will enjoy them? I wonder if they will even recognize me after all these years….

…

Rotten luck has struck me! Less than 20 hours from port, and I’ve hit an old World War II buoy! My front passenger-side tire is destroyed, along with the axel. Traffic has been light, and it may be an hour or two before someone finds me. Hell, it’s Christmas weekend, so it might be days. Who drives the Atlantic the weekend before Christmas?

Only stepfathers and fools, it seems.

I have a few juice boxes left, so I’ll just put on my hazard lights and listen to my jazz mix. I wonder if they will even recognize me when I get there?