Is There a Parent Here?
What I did in grade 12 but could never imagine allowing my kids to do today
Early in my life as a parent a buddy told me a story about parenting his kids that left an interesting impression on one of his neighbours. And me. He was a little ahead of us as far as kids were concerned, and had two boys at the top of the order while we just had an infant at the time. We started with a girl. Start with girls - trust me. They learn faster, are more verbal at an earlier age and actually have a sense of responsibility. Boys are far more physical in the way the learn and do everything. Parents of boys know the emergency room staff on a first name basis. Parents of girls don't even know where the hospital is.
So there is my buddy, father of two boys at the time, out back cutting the grass while two of his boys were playing somewhere around the house. That is your first clue here - a Mother would know where the kids are at all times. A Dad is typically comfortable with a general idea that they are on the property. Big mistake. At some point during the grass cutting exercise on this summer day, a neighbour comes bursting through the back door of the house with an exasperated look on their face. "Is there a parent here?!"
"Uh, me?" he responds with a little too much question in the answer.
"You need to restrain your boys! Immediately." Says the neighbour.
Restrain? Thinking the boys have done something unthinkable like shower the neighbour's car in gravel or waterbomb their cat, the Dad becomes engaged in the situation. "What happened?" he is able to stammer.
"Did you allow them to turn the Hydro cable into a zipline?"
The Dad leads the neighbour back through the house not sure if that faint tinge of pride for their ingenuity will be overcome by a visit from child services. "Thank you for all your help, I'll take it from here," he says as he dispatches the neighbour and starts looking for the boys.
It turns out the power line into the house (called a Hydro cable in Western Canada because the power comes from Hydroelectric dams) could be reached by standing on the railing around the front porch. It seemed like a perfect zipline out onto the front grass. The real shocker is that no one was electrocuted during the multiple rides these two had taken.
I would love to say this happened in the '70's but it was in fact a 21st century event, not what we have come to expect from the Helicopter Parents of the' 90's and beyond. Today, it seems, we are far more protective of our children. It may be because so many more things today threaten to put our kids in danger that we restrict their freedom out of prudence. Cars move faster, drivers are less often drunk but more often distracted, and because we hear about so many terrible misfortunes to befall others that we become much more protective. For example, as our eldest finished highschool I reminisced about my grade 12 year and realized I would be determinedly opposed as a parent to any one of our kids going on a 10 day Spring Break road trip 1,000 miles away. Yet that is exactly what I did in Grade 12.
March, 1985
Six of us left town in two cars with no cell phones, credit cards or means other than some of our own cash. No reservations, no real itinerary other than be back before school starts Monday after Spring Break (was it 10 days or 2 weeks?). Ian measured the distance: 1,024 miles which meant we could make it down to LA in one 24 hour stretch by rotating drivers. I might have suggested that last bit, but with no opposition that's exactly what we did.
We did have one point of contact. Rob had an aunt and uncle working for a rich woman living in Beverly Hills. The couple was there for the kids in-between nannies, ensuring the cars were full of gas, the pool guy came on time and otherwise took care of a variety of other things that needed to be done. On staff and paid with time off once in a while we visited them on the way through LA. Turns out it was the very house owned by Joan Crawford and featured in the book “Mommy Dearest” which I had read some years before.
Trolling around West LA we spent a night in Westwood where the Frat houses for UCLA were situated. Late entry to a frat party when you're 17, and quite obviously not going to any university, was a challenge but after declaring on the doorstep that we're Canadian and our beer is stronger than Amerian beer got us delivered immediately to the nearest beer pong table to prove it. From there it was easy, we were inside, and in our case we had Ross. Ross likes beer but so do all of us. What Ross can do is open his throat in such a way that an entire beer can be poured into his stomach as if it were being poured into the kitchen sink. No resistance whatsoever. The only way to beat him in a drinking contest is if you can do the same. If not, it's over before it begins. And with that talent plus a win at the table, the rest of us were released to roam this shockingly large house. Nearly every room contained a bar of some sort whether it was a keg or an actual bartender mixing drinks. Stepping outside upstairs we discover a pool with the Fraternity’s letters tiled into the bottom. Upstairs because the house is on a hill and in that way connected to other houses next door and behind.
We drove home that night with our two designated drivers, one of whom was Alastair partly because he won a hot sauce eating contest at the hotel earlier that evening and he already felt so sick he wasn't interested in alcohol. As we approach our hotel room in Santa Monica, waiting at a red light, some guy pulls up beside us and with his window open says "Hey, does anyone want to buy any pot, heroin or machine guns?". I look over at Al in the driver's seat and ask him "Did that just happen?". He nods slowly.
On another night heading south of LA we found ourselves at some crazy house party in Laguna Beach at a house up on the hill overlooking the entire beach. Not a mansion or anything too palatial but a modest house with a pool and a spectacular view looking West. I remember walking through the house late in the party with only a few people left seeing beer cans and liquor bottles on every surface as well as the floor, around the pool, in the pool, everywhere. "Who lives here?" I was asking myself as the Popo pulled up. Blue and red lights mean its time to leave… Maybe a little past time to leave so we should hurry.
Mexico
All that and more was just LA. We had yet to go south, not really with any destination in mind, just south. We discover that a State Beach is a perfect place to camp. Cheap on a per night basis and even cheaper if you arrive late and leave before the ranger comes around to check for payment the next day. South of LA is San Onofre State Beach. Sandwiched between the I-5 freeway and a nuclear reactor this place is definitely a one-night stand. As we pull in we can see this location has only a narrow strip of ground for campsites before the geography drops off to the beaches below, one of which is great for surfing and the other a full-on nudist beach. It’s evening and we find a group of surfers at the far end of the campsite perfectly set up with a fire, chairs and cold beer so we just roll on in. "Hey, we're from Canada, who are you guys?" or something like that. It never took much.
As we hang out with this group of surfers we hear they have been coming to this location for more than 10 years. Something about the surf break and the lack of crowds. I ask one of them about the odd helicopter we see buzz by overhead. "Oh, that's border control" he says, expecting me to understand. The blank stare on my face convinces him to give up a little more. "The final border check for illegal migrants coming up from Mexico is just south of us on I-5 so the people get dropped off down there and they walk along the beach before getting back into their ride after the border check."
"Oh" was all I managed. Thinking about it I ask "Why don't they walk on the other side of the highway where they can't be seen so easily along the beach?" I asked.
"The military base is on the other side. They definitely don't want to be over there" he says.
Well, I can't argue with that but why are there three helicopters now, and why are they circling overhead? Tighter circles and lower altitude we now find the helicopters are coming down on top of us, blowing the sand and grass around. Before the surfer Dude can provide any further explanation three white vans pull up and park right beside the surfers’ campsite. Right in front of us. Then BLAM, the helicopters’ searchlights come on and 30 or 40 people are marched out of the bushes with their hands on their heads. They are loaded into the vans and taken away. The helicopters disappear and we are left looking at each other dumbfounded. The surfers all tell us “We have been coming here for 20 years and have never seen anything like this (I thought they said 10 years before…).” Oh well, just chalk that up as one more freaky happening on this Spring Break adventure. Let’s go to Mexico next.
Anyone from Mexico will tell you Tijuana is NOT Mexico. But we are now on a mission to say we went to Mexico so don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story.
Still maintaining a shred of caution, we park on the US side of the border and walk across. Immediately it is like another world. The same dust and heat near the ocean but the nicely paved roads, sidewalks with curbs and organized power lines leading to each property are gone. This place looks like a teenager is in charge, refusing to clean, tidy or fix anything. I buy a taco from a street vendor and get looks from the rest of the crew, all expecting me to get food poisoning. We find a liquor store because adding alcohol to the situation seemed like a good idea at the time. And since none of us are of age in either Canada or the USA, going into a liquor store and buying cold beer without being questioned was a novelty.
So there we are, walking down a main street in Tijuana drinking beer and just waiting for something to happen next. It didn’t take long. Before anyone has consumed half a beer a motorcycle cop pulls over to the curb with a menacing look in his eye. Anyone who saw the TV show Chips in the 1980’s would recognize this guy as the spitting image of Eric Estrada - beige uniform, aviator sunglasses, golden helmet and black leather boots up to his knees all astride a full-on Harley Davidson Police bike. He proceeds to tell us drinking in public is illegal in Mexico. “What? Nobody told us!” we explain in the most pathetic way possible.
“You will spend 3 days in jail” he says after carefully explaining the gravity of our transgression. “Or, you pay the fine.”
“The fine? The fine! How much is the fine?” we all look at him with anticipation.
At this moment, he literally steps back and looks us up and down. Sizing us up as if a director in a low budget movie said “I want you to really sell it.”
“Fifty US dollars. Each.” That’s a lot of money. Do we even have that much? Some of the guys turn away trying to think about the choice they have been given - a Tijuana jail or all of the money left in their pockets. I immediately start to haggle with him, and before we know it we are down to twenty bucks each and we are ready to get out of there. Agreed on the amount we all reach for our wallets. “Not here!” he says with great concern. “In the squad car” as he motions to the police car that pulled up during the negotiations just for support. Inside is a very round, sweaty Mexican police officer smiling as we each pass him a $20 bill through the passenger window. Like a lunch line, the six of us file past the squad car and make our payment then I turn back to Eric Estrada who is waiting for us on the sidewalk. “Can we get a photo?” I ask…
Whistlerborn is not famous but his uncle climbed Everest and has the most wicked ski run in the world named after him, his cousin rowed in the 1988 Olympics in Seoul, and his Grandfather brought the first neon sign to Vancouver a hundred years ago so he is happily anonymous but feeling in good company.
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