and our dad

We used to holiday with our children.
Our little Volkswagen Rabbit would be packed to the rafters with camping gear and our daughters would scramble into the back seat over mounds of bedding and jackets. They always seemed wedged in like after thoughts, poor things, when really, it was all for them that we went. It was fun though.
Getting out of the car at our eventual campsite was like hatching from an egg, or like some strange time lapse; door hurled wide, the back hatch as well, and an endless stream of gear unfolding and unfurling and filling up the available space.
Getting there really was half the fun, as long as we made the ferry connections.
Even the wait at the terminal had its charms. Comics would emerge from the cache of back seat goods, snacks too, and windows would roll down.
People watching can be pretty entertaining too and we would all hunker down for the duration, somehow content and eager at the same time.
I remember one summer morning  at the ferry terminal, waiting with all of the other cars, line after endless line. As yet another cluster of teenage loveliness drifted past the car window, a man in the next aisle could contain himself no longer. He hooted and leered and lolled out his car window.
My young daughters exchanged glances in the backseat.
"And OUR Dad watches birds," said one to the other.