Life Goes On – Road Trip!

The plan was simple: fly west, pick up the car, and drive it home.

But of course, with Dad along, it was never just about the car.

He and Mom had been willing participants in my roadrunner adventures before, and this time was no different—except that Mom was running her quilt shop, holding down the fort, while Dad and I packed light and boarded a flight.

Just the two of us. 

A familiar adventure, a tradition of road trips and shared miles. It’s not just about retrieving a car; it’s about shared miles, conversations between gas stops, laughter over diner coffee and truck stop food, the endless search for radio stations along the way. Nothing loses radio signals like the great expanse of the desert southwest, literally.

Two generations, one itinerary, no timeline but the road.

We landed in San Diego mid-morning, the air already warm, and the scent hit us—the herbal sharpness of eucalyptus stitched into the salty ocean breeze, settling somewhere between memory and motion. That kind of California golden that makes everything feel like it’s just beginning.

San Diego has its own kind of rhythm: kicked-back, sun-kissed, and edged in coastal calm, the kind of place where time stretches and the horizon always feels close.

At the curb outside baggage claim, there she was—Sandy, my eldest sister, waving from behind the wheel of her shiny red Chevy S10. Already smiling like she knew this wasn’t just any pickup. She had that familiar mix of cheer and quiet observation—the sister who remembers birthdays, who notices when the hem of your jeans is new, who makes arrivals feel like homecomings. And she had that twinkle of anticipated mischief in her gaze—because she knew, as always, that mischief tended to follow me wherever I went.

Ritual First - We Always Start With Burritos

Mission Beach. Roberto’s.

Because when you’re in San Diego, no matter what’s ahead—a cross-country drive, a graduation, a reunion, just another day—you start it right:

• Barefoot
• A Roberto’s burrito
• Family next to me, unwrapping theirs with those familiar contented grins

A full-family moment right there. If this is what contentment looked like, I have no complaints. It really is the simple things in life.

The gulls overhead didn’t care we were about to cross a few thousand miles.
The ocean didn’t either—it just kept folding waves across itself like it had seen this scene before.

For a moment, nothing else mattered.
Not the miles ahead.
Not the semesters behind.
Not the car quietly waiting in the background.

Just a packed homemade bean and cheese burrito made by a Mexican family, wrapped tight in butcher paper, salt air in our lungs, and the kind of stillness that tastes a lot like joy.

Wrapped in Silence, Warmth (and Butcher Paper)

Naturally—it was the kind of burrito that demanded respect.
No plastic fork would survive it.
This was full-hand commitment, elbows-out, down to business.

There we were, sitting on the seawall of the boardwalk, the ocean right there, unwrapping our burritos like well-practiced pros. No conversation necessary—just nods of approval between bites. That kind of silence? Golden.

The seawall held me like a memory—it had probably done the same for countless others.
A couple of beach bums lounged nearby, sunbaked and barefoot, trading stories or silence with those familiar, easy grins—the kind that say they’ve claimed this stretch of wall for years.

Surfers walked past with boards dripping saltwater.
Kids zigzagged down the boardwalk on rollerblades, gulls calling overhead.
The waves rolled in and out like they had nowhere better to be.

A Constant Presence

The ocean always had a way of touching my most inward self—my soul soothed by the rhythmic sound of waves crashing on the beach, waves coming in sets. There was a quiet knowing in that rhythm, like the sea was speaking a language I didn’t need to translate to understand.

It was a constant in what at times could be a hectic life.

And it was true to itself, to the timing of the tides speaking in its ancient dialogue with the moon. Something sacred, intimately loyal.

A companion with rhythm, truth, and presence. Something I could always count on - lean on - to be there. I could always feel it's strength and it replenished mine.

Again, it’s the simple things.

As I stood there, I found myself gazing past the shore, wondering where the Kitty Hawk might be—Pat’s ship, CV-63.

Where on that vast blue sweep of water were they?
What did Pat see as he looked out from that immense carrier deck, no land in sight—just ocean, horizon, and sky?

The carrier was enormous—steel, motion, weight—but did it feel small out there, dwarfed by endless sea?
Did he?
Was the rhythm of the ocean comforting to him, too?
Did it steady him the way it steadied me?

Maybe in the hush between duties, during night watch or sunrise, he paused long enough to listen—to let the sea speak its language to him too.
And maybe in that quiet, we were sharing the same stillness, separated by miles, connected by something more.

What Nourishment Really Means

It wasn’t just a lunch stop.
You didn’t need to be hungry to enjoy a Roberto’s burrito.
It was just what you did.

Because it tasted good—more than good.
It tasted like connection, past and present.
It filled more than our stomachs.
It fed our sense of belonging—our rituals, our timing, our togetherness.

That first bite always felt like we were remembering something—something unspoken but understood.

And with eyes fixed on enjoying that warm moment, it radiated new beginnings and a relaxed, second-nature certainty that the future was going to be good.

#theprairieyankee #familyrituals #missionbeach #militaryreflection #sandiego