.SOMETIMES RAW.

*Random things that I think about during the day. Some call me “different”.

A baby?

I definitely wouldn’t bring a baby. That would be so unwise, so I can confidently say I wouldn’t do it. That’s a good choice, right? Because then I’d have to bring the baby plus all the baby supplies. And I’d have the added difficulty of having to take care of the baby while also trying to survive myself—too many moving parts. Also, the baby doesn’t have any helpful survival skills like hunting, fishing, constructing shelters, etc. So pretty much just a total liability.

My Son’s Nintendo Switch?

Totally impractical. Like, yeah, maybe fun, but probably not something I would put in my top three if somebody asked, right? Like that would be embarrassingly wrong?

Captain Flint?

I want to say no? Or, wait, maybe yes? I’ll put a pin in this one for a moment. Forget I mentioned it. Captain Flint obviously has to come.

Bubble gum?

Haha, that would be so stupid. Unless you’re some sort of bubblegum whiz, who can construct almost anything out of bubblegum? Or maybe these lollipops with bubble gum in them? Or the ones that colour your tongue blue or green? Yeah, better no bubble gum.

A true-to-life wax sculpture of Arnold Schwarzenegger?

Even though seeing a human face while stranded alone would probably be good for my mental health, the wax would melt pretty quickly. And wax sculptures can’t talk, so it wouldn’t be actual human company. And even if it could talk, I’m not sure Arnie would be my first choice of conversation partner. Like, I’d definitely choose a wax sculpture of Hemingway, Pessoa, Roth, or Murakami, over Schwarzenegger. I’d honestly probably just stay away from wax sculptures entirely—I’ve never really seen the appeal. Also, it could be scary waking up in the middle of the night to see a half-melted Schwarzenegger standing over me. Also, I’m pretty sure Madame Tussauds doesn’t rent those out. Could make for a good Instagram post, though. Wait, should I be bringing my phone?

A bunch of loose printer paper?

What the hell would I even do with that? No.

Bug spray?

This one feels tempting, but ultimately it’s a no. I can just swim around in the water to get away from bugs. And I need to save the three items I would bring for things that are really smart and good, and that would impress a Reddit thread filled with top-notch survivalists out for my metaphorical blood, like Band-Aids or a big knife or something. Don’t hold me to those, though, because, like I said, I don’t know which three things I would bring, only that bug spray is probably not one of them.

Ravioli?

This one is laughably incorrect! No qualms at all about leaving this one behind. It’s not even my favourite pasta dish, let alone my favourite food. I don’t know if people even say that any sort of food is a good thing to bring. But if it is, I would absolutely bring a gourmet hot dog, or even cheese tortellini over ravioli. Maybe

Extra underwear?

So, from what I gather, you get to wear clothes when you go to this island in addition to bringing three other things. And the general consensus is to just stick with what you’re originally wearing, right? Like dress for the weather and all that, but no need to pack extra clothes. Especially when you can just wear like six pairs of underwear so you’ll have extra anyway. That’s actually a pretty good loophole—there are no rules against that, right?

A couple hundred big balloons?

I know what you’re thinking: “But this would make a great getaway device to fly away from the island and save yourself!” Well, I’m not falling for the Upscenario that everyone wants you to believe. I’m pretty sure I saw a YouTube video explaining why a bunch of balloons physically couldn’t lift a house, so I’m not really ready to bet my life on that plan. Up is a children’s film, not real life—I know that now. Plus, it kind of feels like cheating to choose “a couple hundred” balloons as one of your three items.

Hammock?

I saw someone say they’d bring this once, and I couldn’t believe how dumb they were being. Every island survival list I’ve ever read suggests bringing this as your fourth or even fifth thing, but definitely not top three—I would never choose something so obviously not top three. Okay, maybe, at one point in my life, I might have chosen this one, but I was naïve back then. I’m older now, smarter. I won’t let the cruel, anti-hammock comments determine my self-worth. Everyone was like, “Really? A hammock? That’s in your top three?” and “What else are you going to bring? A cooking pot?” Honestly, I couldn’t tell whether that was supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing, but it felt mean-spirited. They made me feel so bad and embarrassed and like a total survival novice—never again. I will rule out every possible embarrassing answer until I hone in on the elusive and objectively correct top three answers. This shall be my life’s work, the achievement upon which I stake my name and my reputation. I will not fail. To be in a Hammock with Captain Flint sounds pretty cool though.

A bunch of batteries?

Uh… I don’t know, maybe? Like maybe battery juice is good for something on an island? Maybe for a megaphone? I heard you can easily attach a bunch of them together and turn them all on at once. I’ll google it.

*for my godmother Hannelore. Because we spoke about it last Monday.

1. Rent one big house together. Working “together” to choose a house, everyone should drag their feet and be overly polite until the bossiest one just takes care of it. The Boss should resent that they had to do everything. Everyone else should resent that The Boss got to make the decision. No one should say anything (yet).

2. Gather funding. This financial component is essential for establishing tension from the start because everyone in your family has different incomes. Even The Boss (who is the wealthiest) says, “Whoa,” upon seeing the price per night.

3. Make sure the house is spacious enough to accommodate everyone (technically) but also no one (comfortably). Some variations to maximize relationship destruction:

• Select a house with one fewer master suite than the number of couples. Don’t forget to unfairly resent the couple who didn’t get an ensuite bathroom.
• Select a house with enough beds for every kid but one.
• Put every kid in a sleeping bag on the floor except one, who gets a bed. Because, as everyone knows, Clarissa is a little princess who’s done no wrong since the day she was born, and what, now you’re mad at, like, a child?

Note: Everyone must hate the house but say they love it.

4. Invite that estranged family member. Or you know what, don’t. Either way, someone’s going to be furious.

5. Bring a ridiculous amount of food. Each family should bring enough food to feed eighteen families for four months—except the one family who brings enough to feed one family for one week. Unreasonably label the reasonable family “stingy.”

6. Demand that everyone eat what you brought.

7. Retain some very specific and important rules about what should not be eaten. Do not tell anyone what they are. Become quietly angry when the rules are violated.

8. Consent to all dinner plans. But as game-time approaches, start to cook something else entirely. Take up a lot of burners; always somehow be in the way of the assigned chef. Claim the menu shift is due to dietary restrictions, but really you just want something else, and, like, it’s YOUR vacation, too, right? At least once, “remind” someone who’s already made you dinner that you have plans to eat out. Also, let the same two people do the dishes after every meal. If you’re one of them, sigh audibly. But say nothing (yet).

9. Carry all earthly possessions to the beach. Basketball and bocce and volleyball and football, and what the fuck are they getting out, a badminton net? Drag it all down a giant dune and forget about the trip back up. The Boss should force the family members who brought only a towel and a book to play badminton, and then everyone should think, if Diana and Michael were so keen to play badminton, why didn’t they lug down a shopping cart of beach equipment themselves?

10. Play board games 24-7 for some reason. Without clearly delineated winners and losers, everyone risks surviving vacation feeling calm, even pleasantly refreshed. Bonus: no matter how competitive you are, anyone either more or less competitive than you is super annoying.

11. Finally explode—but on the wrong person. Try taking it out on the kids because they are an easy target. Or that one widowed family member who can’t call for backup. Get it all out. There’s a lot in there.

12. Hide in that one tucked-away bathroom, as you have been doing all week. Only this time, stay in there for so long that everyone starts to talk in hushed, reverent tones about you. Cry and scream.

13. “Apologize” for exploding. Play nice in the final eight minutes of vacation. Smile. Give everyone a hug. There. That’s your apology.

14. As you pull out of the driveway, tell everyone we should definitely do this again next summer. Same house, same mini golf where Uncle John threw a hissy fit about how Uncle Billy doesn’t correctly calculate penalty strokes, same everything.

14. On the ride home, strap in for the long, damning post-mortem with your spouse. Add screaming, crying kids. This is the best part. This is your true vacation.

15. Kind of miss the whole thing the instant you’re home. It wasn’t so bad, right? It was kind of fun. Reinforce this idea by telling everyone at the office that it was great. This is just the kind of mind that will get you back in the family van next summer.

If these strategies fail to spark bitter acrimony among your extended family, try again next vacation. And add alcohol. And more screaming, crying kids.

The two-hour drive on winding mountain roads is pleasant since my son loves to be quiet and read, so we never have to subject ourselves to a constant loop of “Are we there yet? Did you bring the Nintendo Switch charger? Can I charge the Switch in the woods? Why is this knife so sharp? Are we there yeeeeeeet? How much longer? Will there be mosquitos?” I whisper, “Good luck,” to the other families who are stopped along the side of the road so their kids can throw up from motion sickness. They must not know about ginger candy.

When we arrive at the campsite, my kid gets to work constructing elaborate pinecone bird feeders while I easily put up the tent. Having one kid who can entertain himself works just as well as people said it would. They are never bored. He always plays alone peacefully and never fights over toys or gets into a screaming match over who gets the biggest stick.

Even at such a young age, my kid has an instinctive appreciation for the great outdoors and nature. He is also never bored by nature. He doesn’t throw rocks at other kids, burns things or tries to feed a chipmunk his organic homemade snacks that I always find the time to make. Instead, he sits quietly in his camping chair, admiring the beautiful landscape and sings indie-inspired campfire songs and tells me how much he loves me and appreciates all the things I do for him.

At dinnertime, we eat the stew I cook over the campfire even though it’s unfamiliar to him and features ingredients touching each other. Or veggies. Getting him to be an adventurous eater was just as simple as all the parenting message boards said it would be, and now he will eat all the same food I do instead of asking why there are no waffles in the woods.

After dinner, the kids at the campground next to us are wrestling and trying to eat burnt marshmallows off the ground, while my kid sits and munches on his carefully prepared smores and doesn’t try to run over to dig a hole underneath the neighbour’s tent. Because my son listened intently to my safety talk about blades and flames, he diligently avoids the campfire and axe I brought instead of trying to recreate some school version of Zelda, Naruto, or Fortnite.

It rains a little, but that’s our chance to snuggle up together in the tent. I read a book while my kid quietly completes his Maths and English study booklets. I introduced him to books at a young age, and that’s all it really takes to raise precocious readers and writers.

Even though it’s light in the summer between 9:00 p.m. and 5:00 a.m., my kid happily gets tucked into bed at 7:00 p.m. and drifts off to sleep so I can spend some time chilling by the fire. With all the sleep I have been getting for the past few years, of course, I want to stay up late.

That night we slept so deeply that we didn’t even wake up to the sound of the family in the campground next to us pleading with their kids to just go to sleep already and then packing up their campsite at three in the morning to head home early.

As the sun rises in the morning, the thin layer of nylon protecting us from the sunlight and noises in the neighbouring camps acts like a soundproof force field and lets my kid sleep in so late that we have to wake them up at 9:00 a.m. Young kids will sleep all day if you let them.

People at the neighbouring campsites smile and nod at us and our well-behaved children as they fry bacon and eggs on their camping stoves. I can tell they are happy to see a kid inhabiting the same public space they are in and that they think we are doing a good job as parents.

Packing up the campsite is a breeze because my son helps. I get to sit at the picnic table for thirty minutes to eat pancakes and slowly sip an entire cup of coffee out of the mug I definitely remembered to bring. I serenely smile as I watch my nine-year-old pack my sleeping bag into a sack with expertise I’ve never been able to manage.

When we get in the car to head home, well-rested and happy, I say, “We should definitely do that again.”