“Turn, turn, turn,” I’m yelling at my husband, Ish, as we approach the intersection. “I’m trying,” he’s yelling back as the motorhome takes a hard right.
This is not a scene out of an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie; this is the scene inside our 24-foot rented motorhome. Mere moments earlier, things might have been described as serene. We’d been first in line for the ferry from Bainbridge Island to Seattle.
I meant left, but it’s too late. The engine is roaring as we try to mount the hill in front of us. It sounds like a motorcycle gang is in hot pursuit. Dishes crash in the cupboards behind us. A box of Ritz crackers flies off the counter and smacks into the back of my head. The children are silent. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, they’re scrambling to stop the cards from the game of UNO they were playing from sliding onto the floor.
Image from the Toronto Star