Fernverkehr nach Delaware

After being back in the States for a few weeks, unwinding and catching up with family on the Island, it was time to take a trip down to Delaware to visit my father. Last Thursday I was able to requisition a vehicle, and off I went.

In case you've never made the trip before, the journey from central Long Island to southern Delaware takes approximately 5 hours. This isn't a beast of a road trip, especially in this country. Indeed, in the past I enjoyed taking such road trips---good music, a cup of coffee, the breeze blowing in the window over my hair, a traveling mate....all of it is quintessentially American and very often a pleasure.
However, returning to American roads after a year-long hiatus, I felt these niceties of such long-distance roadtrips to be missing. Breeze, yes; music, yes; coffee, yes; sense of progress, yes---but it was still...lacking. I was unhappy with all the radio stations, the progress---I was antsy. Why could I sit at the computer writing for 9 hours but not in the driver's seat? Hadn't I missed the freedom endowed by being behind the wheel of an automobile?

Of course, driving is like bicycle riding---you don't forget (unless you have senility, dementia, or Alzheimer's), and nor did I. However, while my driving skill remained intact, it seems my sense of urgency had waned. Or had I forgotten how fast everyone drives in New York? Either way, I wasn't in any rush, but these people riding my ass and cutting in at 80 miles an hour was becoming irritating. 
Settling into the flow is one of the essentials of driving (and life) though, and by the time I got to central Jersey I was blasting down the turnpike swearing like the rest of them. Sometimes you have to compromise your own rhythm to go with the flow.

So this road trip down to Delaware reminded me of the things I love and hate about American roadways. For starters, the accessories people put on their cars are always entertaining. I got a chuckle out of the wind-spinning trailer-hitch propeller, the dangling testicles less so. Stickers are more entertaining: on my trip I saw "JerSea Girl!"; "If it's tourist season, why can't we shoot them?"; "My other car is a school bus"; and a Dodge with the tailgate moniker "Eats Fords, shits Chevys".

Reaching Dover, DE, however, quickly dissipated my gripes regarding tri-state drivers. Perhaps driving through NY and NJ had brought out the raging lunatic driver inside me, or perhaps I had just gotten used to the natural hochgeschwindigkeit of the New York/New England region. But once I got within the vicinity of "slower lower" Delaware, the roadway memories of years gone by reared their ugly heads.

I had forgotten that all Maryland (and some Virginian) drivers travel to the United Kingdom to receive their driver's licenses. In case you don't know, the good people of the UK drive on the left, which is where everyone from Maryland also drives in this country on the highway. Yes, drivers from that state seem to be completely unaware that in this country the left  lane is for passing, and slower traffic should remain to the right. As lad with five or six years' driving experience under my belt, I was irked by this sneaking suspicion. However, twelve years later, I can safely confirm the horrible truth that Marylanders, and Virginians, are either completely ignorant or entirely incapable of adhering to multiple-lane highway protocol of the United States. I thank you good folk from these states, because to date you have cost me $1895 in lost gas mileage because of your idiocy.

I had also forgotten that rearview mirrors don't exist in the cars of drivers of Mid-Atlantic states. No, I'm not trying to go anywhere---please stop in the middle of the road before you turn left, the left-hand turning lane is just an 80-year-old vestige. No need to use that 8 foot shoulder for your right turn either, that's reserved as a children's playground. Oh, and no need to use the blinker either, that's another vestige of the past---this being the 21st century, I know exactly what your next move is.

Okay, I'm finished. Sorry. Thus ends my driver rant.

Coasting along the coast into my old coastal home, a wave of relaxation descended upon me: Home again, home again, jiggity-jig. I always get relaxed when I pass over the Indian River Bridge, because it means I've made it.

This wave of homecoming nostalgia was enhanced by the new bridge that has been built over the inlet. Begun seven years ago, it was finally completed recently, and passing over it was both a metaphoric breeze and aesthetic pleasure, lending a proud satisfaction and giddiness to my arrival in Slower Lower. What progress! What innovation! Admittedly, it may look like a simple bridge to most, but as someone who lived there for 20 years, I was tickled by such progressive advancement.

Indian River Inlet Bridge.

Home sweet home.

I have to admit I cried when I saw my father. He didn't look older (he never does, something I hope to inherit), but the gray has begun to creep up from the temples (sorry, Dad---I have to admit it is sexy, though!!). He was excited to see me; he had planned a fishing trip for the next day, so we prepped the gear and canoe and tucked in early, after a few beers and tequilas, of course.

The next morning, we set out at 5.30 for Trap Pond. We made good time, and were able to put into the glass-like water at about 6.30. We paddled out, and the dark steamy surface was boiling with fish.

Setting out.

Unfortunately though, the fish weren't boiling in the direction of our lures. I actually hooked a huge largemouth on my second cast, but he got off just before I pulled him into the boat (Helke fishing code says you have to get it into the boat for it to count).
We paddled down the pond in the pristine virginal mist of a new day, and while the fish churned aplenty, we simply weren't able to catch more than a handful. We fished the cypress stumps, the lily pads, the open water, the shady reeds, the quiet inlet streams, but we got not more than a nibble in most places. In the end, I was outfished once again, as I have always been, by my father---5 to 2.

The Pro at work.

Outfished by the Man, once again. 

Of course when we fish it is always catch and release, but on days where we don't catch as much as we'd like, we buy fish from the store to eat for dinner. I had brought some clams down from the Island, and together with some tuna steaks and grilled vegetables a stellar dinner was created. My old friend Woody came over as well, and while we ate and caught up and joked and listened to Woody play guitar, the laughter flowed and the bottle of Patron disappeared.

The next day I slept late and milled around the house while Dad ran errands. I picked through my boxes for anything that might be needed, and hung out in the shed to relax.

Missed this shed!!

Hanging out makes one restless though, and in the afternoon I begged Dad to go down to have a swim at the beach. Recent hurricane remnants had made the ocean rough, and a swim in the frothy mix left me knackered, but it was nostalgically refreshing. That night, we went to Rehoboth for dinner, and enjoyed a delectable selection of microbrews on tap. 

Wider than usual, Bethany is.

The next day before I had to return we went to Southside to have a walk along the Inlet and have a look at the bridges' progress. It had rained something fierce the night before, so the weather was absolutely clear and beautiful. The views of the bridges were quite nice as well.

Southside.

26 years older and he still looks better than me.

New bridge in back, old in front.

The old (r) and the new (l).

 

After our lovely walk, I had to begin the long and boring drive home. I wasn't happy, because like reacclimating to the nuances of driving in America, I was just getting settled back into the "slower lower" rhythm (a term I always hated growing up there, and still do). 

Setting out from my father's driveway is always hard, because primally---having grown up there---it feels like leaving home, and thus I never want to leave. However, this time I was reassured by the fact I wouldn't be too far. Home is now only a five hour drive.

My old Delaware home.