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|Family Matters Jan/Feb - Page 2|
We wait, and wait, as the boat fills and the crew prepares for the trip, and we each scan the boat for our boys. After 20 minutes, I spy the red beanie and call out his name. I'm the only parent to do so, though, as others have already said their good-byes, and my voice, so loud when I criticize Dylan at home, comes out as a hoarse bark, my self-consciousness in the swirl of onlookers grabbing at my vocal cords. Dylan can't hear me. Minutes later, as the engines begin to turn, he looks back at the terminal and sees me, and we both wave, smiling.
I watch briefly as the boat eases away from the dock, and then I leave with the other parents. I don't turn on the radio for the drive home, choosing to think about my older son in the silence of the car. His younger brother would have worked himself into a tense knot of anxiety about leaving home, but Dylan has thrown himself into this activity with abandon, as he has other outings.
Last summer, his first trip to a summer scout camp was aborted after one day by a wildfire. He still gets animated telling the story of his troop's evacuation at midnight, and how he looked out the back of the bus at the fire approaching in the not-so-distant woods, the bus slowly climbing up the 11-mile dirt road out of the aptly named Lost Valley campground. Adversity became adventure.