Where have you gone to, Jenny McCarthy?

For as long as I can remember, my entire paternal family took trips to St. Augustine, Florida every year for a Fourth of July beach trip. It's a classic beach destination sort of place. Pink stucco buildings with red Spanish roofs surrounding a beautiful little kidney shaped swimming pool. There is a boardwalk almost the length of a football field down to the beach that has a door with a keycard that, to my knowledge, has not been updated since before the Soviet Union dissolved. Most of the units resemble the set of the Golden Girls. For the past few years, we went to Tybee Island, Georgia instead, but this year we went back to St. Augustine.

My first day there, sitting under umbrellas telling my Aunt Nora Anne about my underwhelming new job in recruiting, I noticed a man walking by. He had a familiar gait and even a goatee that reminded me of a friend. He even had a poor posture that I know so well because I do the same thing. It's a hips jutted out, head slightly forward thing. It's not terrible, really. You'd have to look pretty hard and then you might just think we were slightly scoliotic. I walked over to where this possible friend was playing with kids that possibly looked a lot like his. Sure enough, it was my former boss and current friend, Clay.

It's a strange thing running into home friends on a vacation. Worlds collide and it completely expels the mindset of escape you've been working on for the seven hour drive down. It's great though, wonderful material for bragging to all the other friends you two share.

Clay and Deborah were there with their three kids as well as her side of the family. They were like the Andersons circa 1987, also known as lots of family and all the kids under the age of 10. I talked with Clay and watched their kids play in the tide pools that form on the incredibly wide beach of St. Augustine. He said the kids play hard all day and fall fast asleep at night, open-mouthed draining the air of the bedrooms for all available oxygen in the way that only exasperated and content children can. In the evenings, the family grandfather watches the kids while the parents do the fun kind of stuff you do at the beach before you procreated.

In talking with Clay and Deborah and seeing the similarities between a young group and where I at 25 am the baby of the family, I realized there are some universal truths of family vacations. Everyone has their roles. Dads are in charge of making sure the kids don't drown, the teaching of boogey boarding, and being clinched to tightly by children terrified of crashing waves. Moms are for the other side of the day, the tent/umbrella world more back towards the dunes. Calories and hydration prevent crankiness, and regular/miserable reapplication of sunscreen to avoid subsequent reapplications of aloe. Moms also keep the running list of things to do when you're tired of getting your sinuses flushed out by saltwater knocking you over: walks, sandcastles, paddle ball, the like.

I also realized with talking with my friends that vacations are a terrible amount of work for the parents. All of the aforementioned tasks are terribly draining and not really what you'd prefer to do. Young parents must especially remember their younger days of beer coolers, overly-competitive volleyball games, and laying out. Maybe they even appeared on screen of MTV's spring break for six seconds of VHS-at-your-mom's-house glory. Now their coolers have Goldfish and Capri Suns. They play games like "dad watch me not be very good at body surfing." And of course, they probably would rather just wear a shirt  and wide brimmed hat on the beach to avoid burning and prevent premature aging. How quickly things change and how badly tribal tattoos fade. While my cousins and I make trips to the "World Famous Oasis Deck and Restaurant," they watch kids videos on iPads. It's not bad, it's just where you are in life.

Earlier I said that I was the youngest of my family, but actually my cousin and his wife now have two boys, 3 and 1 years old. Twenty-two years later and I'm not the cute one, although arguably cute was out of the question by the gawky age of 11. The great thing about these boys is remembering how well my family makes children feel special. They all have this untaught ability to listen to kids and remind them through their actions and words that their little thoughts are big to them, important even. We all sing them happy birthday and do that weird thing of repeating everything they say right after they say it, just to re-live the cute. It is actually quite delightful to participate in making things special for kids.

So it seems there are two options to kids at the beach. Bring grandparents like my friends, or just be incredibly stealthy and drinking copious amounts of beer in front of your kids like my family. Either way, it's always fun, and who knows, you might run in to an old friend to talk to.