Behind the Scenes of a Working Family Vacation

It was a great idea! Take my wife, Melissa, and kids, Caroline 11, and Christopher, 8, along on a writing trip. We’d spend spring break exploring the Southeast coast, and along the way I’d pick up material for a couple of travel assignments. How could it go wrong?

A week later we pulled into The Cloister Resort on Sea Island, Georgia, destination of presidents and foreign statesmen. A flying squad of bellmen and parking valets snatched open our minivan doors and there we sat, blinking amidst a settling debris-cloud of laundry, DVD boxes, broken souvenirs and fast food sacks. A half-empty Pringle’s can fell out and rolled across the cobbled porte cochere with a forlorn, hollow rattle.

Judging from the staff’s faces, this was a new experience for them. For us, it was standard procedure.

The trip grew out of two assignments: one for a piece on lighthouses for the Nashville Tennessean and another on coastal resorts offering special programs for kids and families that would run in the Cincinnati Enquirer. The plan was for us to start with Savannah and Tybee Island in Georgia and work our way south, stopping over at Daufuskie Island, St. Simon’s Island, Sea Island, and ending up at Jekyll Island. Along the way we’d see the sights and I’d see to the things you do on assignment: photos, local color and quotes from regular folks and resort staffers.

Visitors to Savannah, Ga., founded in 1733, will be familiar with its lush selection of architectural and historical attractions and the lovely garden squares bursting in early spring with floral beauty. We were eager to get out in it; I had my camera charged up, lenses cleaned, extra memory cards ready to fill with great shots of horse-drawn carriages, wrought-iron embellishments and sun-washed southern scenes. That’s when the weather turned. A low, gray ceiling descended, intermittent rain kept us dodging from awning to overhang, a cold wind sprang up and moods sank.

On a regular writing trip, one deals with bad weather by attending to other matters. You de-emphasize the photography, work the indoor venues and let your writer’s imagination color in the gray sights you’re actually seeing. Kids don’t do that very well.

They did enjoy walking through the Roundhouse Railroad Museum, part of the 1835 railroad shops spared by Union General William T. Sherman at the end of his March to the Sea. The kids climbed on antique train cars and yard engines and looked on curiously as caterers transformed the old roundhouse into the scene of a fancy fundraising dinner later that evening. We also made a circuit of the historic district on a stop-and-go trolley tour, which because of the weather, was jam-packed by tourists who would otherwise have been on foot.

But their patience thinned dangerously when I had to chat with other visitors—the couple sharing a waffle cone with their dog outside Leopold’s Ice Cream (a historic district landmark since 1919), young couples along the Savannah riverfront, street musicians. Like a lot of folks, kids think one interview should be plenty, not realizing that regular people aren’t fluent in “quotespeak” like the politicians they see on the evening news. “Dad’s talking to another saxophone player,” my 11-year-old daughter sighed as I held up progress yet again.

The weather finally cleared, and we drove out to Tybee Island to climb the lighthouse. Later we stopped at Civil War-era Fort Pulaski. There, to Christopher’s delight, we pretended to fire enormous cannons at defenseless Tybee Island just across the marshes, explored the imposing battlements and watched a musket demonstration by a historical re-enactor.

Between Savannah and Hilton Head Island, you’ll find largely undeveloped Daufuskie Island, the inspiration for Pat Conroy’s novel, The Water Is Wide. You can still see the tiny schoolhouse where he taught the island’s young residents. On the ferry out (the only way to reach the island), we passed a U.S. Coast Guard patrol boat with an imposing machine gun mounted in the bow. Christopher’s eyes lit up happily, thinking perhaps of Daufuskie’s Bloody Point. Disappointingly, it’s just a golf course, and the closest thing to battle there is a bunch of guys trying to shoot 80.

We stayed in a very nice cottage with a screened-in front porch overlooking Calibogue Sound and the Atlantic, with Hilton Head Island visible just a short distance across the water. Melissa headed off for a spa treatment as the kids enjoyed ham sandwiches on the beach and swung happily in the hammocks suspended between tall pine trees just off the sand.

I also discovered that having kids along can make the job easier. Working alone, it’s not uncommon for people to be a bit reluctant to talk to you. But add a couple of kids giggling in hammocks in the background, and suddenly you’re trustworthy. I think Ryan and Tatum O’Neal sold bibles the same way in the movie Paper Moon.

But “easier” is not the word you’d want to use all the time. We set out for a family bicycle ride that quickly crashed, literally. First Caroline fell, and then Christopher. Caroline sprained her wrist. Christopher skinned his knees. The job turned from travel writing to parenting and TLC. We were able to limp back, and I tried to get a few shots of the happy family out biking, but the expressions on those faces wouldn’t have sold many Good Books.

Next up was The Cloister, a Mediterranean-style resort on Sea Island, just off Brunswick, Ga., that not only hosts presidents, it makes them do yard work. Along the lush main drive there are several commemorative trees planted by presidents and their foreign guests.

At The Cloister, besides lectures from the likes of former U.S. Secretary of Health and Human Services Tommy Thompson, they’ll import wildlife experts to introduce your kids to hawks, owls, toothy reptiles and sea turtles, and will send platoons of staff bustling after whatever you need, even if what you need is a Bionicle left in the van by your son.

Usually I’d just walk down to the parking lot, but the parking valets had snatched our dust-covered Honda Odyssey and hidden it away somewhere so as not to embarrass the limos and Lexuses of the other guests. Arkansas, maybe. So I had to call on our butler. Yes, our butler.

“A ‘Bionicle,’ Mr. Lee? Hmm. Not a problem, Mr. Lee.” It was clear from his voice that he wasn’t familiar with this particular robot warrior toy, which looks a bit like a preying mantis on steroids. Perhaps the foreign minister of, say, Myanmar, prefers a different sort of combat action figure. But at The Cloister, they just get the job done, no matter what.

Ten minutes later we opened the door to find our butler and a line of spit-and-polish staffers carrying—a bit gingerly—all our informal traveling containers: K-Mart sacks, leftover Penney’s shopping bags, and grimy canvas totes promoting everything from Jolly Time popcorn to Busch Gardens wildlife parks. Unsure about this “Bionicle,” they just brought us everything. Now that’s service, but in a five-star-plus resort, paper bags from Tractor Supply Co. prompt raised eyebrows.

Jekyll Island, our final stop on this family island tour, had also been the first stop, after a fashion. Melissa and I had honeymooned there 20 years before. I was looking forward to showing our kids the beaches where their mother had fallen asleep, the seafood restaurants in which she had snoozed, the tidal marsh patrolled by countless skittering crabs that brought her finally to terrified, tippy-toed alertness. (The wedding-planning process had been long and frazzling.)

A just-completed $4.2 million renovation of the island’s crown jewel, the Jekyll Island Club Hotel, built between 1886 and 1902 as a wintertime retreat by Rockefellers, Pulitzers, Vanderbilts, etc., gave me the angle I’d use for the story. In fact, it quickly turned into a wide-angle story, as the hotel, with its 157 rooms and suites in the original clubhouse, an annex, and several separate structures spread out over its beautifully landscaped grounds, consumed all the time we had available.

I toured the property with a staffer, then prowled around taking photos of the croquet court, preparations for an outdoor wedding reception, many of the rich founders’ so-called “cottages” (the two- and three-story kind, with servants’ quarters, parlors, and formal dining rooms), and the graceful, Lazarus fern-covered live oaks shading shell-composite walking paths. Melissa and the kids got stuck at the pool all afternoon.

Okay. So their part wasn’t all that bad, though they did end up looking a bit like the lobsters available in the clubhouse’s top-flight dining room. But we missed out on some nice family history because I was there to do a job, which had to come first. Maybe later we’ll make it back to Jekyll Island to touch the family memory stones.

Looking over what I’ve written here, it sounds like our family trip turned into something of a trial, which isn’t really the case. It’s true; the job makes it harder to enjoy family time. But the job also put us inside The Cloisters, not a likely destination for us otherwise. Even Daufuskie Island and the Jekyll Island Club Hotel would have been something of a stretch, at least in the same year.

But it’s not the high-end stuff we remember anyway. It’s the smaller things, like the sea breeze at the top of Tybee Island lighthouse as we watched huge ocean liners steaming up the Savannah River, an endless expanse of blue sky and ocean spreading out behind. Or letting the kids drive our golf cart on Daufuskie Island (officially against the rules), and nearly colliding with another family letting their kids drive, the kooks.

One sunset, we listened to a mockingbird trill from the dining room verandah at The Cloister; the next afternoon we peeled spanking-fresh shrimp at a dock café near the Jekyll Island Club Hotel. And I got to show the kids you don’t have to worry about those iggly-wiggly little legs, because, see, they come right off. And then you have this meaty orange crescent of just-caught shrimp to dip in the tangy sauce and…yum! Try it!

These are the things family trips are really about, and somehow we always find time to fit them in.

Travel Tips
It takes hard work and planning to get through a family writing trip with both intact; here are a few ideas.

Full Disclosure: Make doubly sure the folks at your destination are okay with your family coming along. At Jekyll Island, there was a bit of confusion at the front desk. Believe me, you don’t want to overhear this whispered telephone call: “He’s brought his whole family.”

Agendas Rule: Inform your kids that sometimes the show has to go on, especially when the resort has put together an agenda for you. After a beautiful evening at The Cloister, the weather turned bad the next morning. Trouble was we were scheduled for a Jeep train shell-collecting expedition. In good weather, it would have been great; in 50 degree temperatures with a near gale-force wind blowing in off the ocean, not so much.

Picture Parity: If your kids end up in your photos, make sure everybody gets the same amount of lens time. Good or bad, send in the same number of shots of each youngster. Inevitably, somebody won’t get into print. Blame the editor.

Know the Limits: In Savannah, we had to skip a ghost tour because my kids are a bit too squeamish for that sort of thing. We also had to skip the haunted pub tour, because even in Savannah they won’t let 11-year-olds drink.

Bring Help: Don’t try to report on a destination and supervise your kids at the same time. Parenting, especially in tourist areas, is a serious and full-time job.

Patience, Please: As a professional, you understand that a writing visit to a vacation spot is very different from a recreational visit. Your kids probably won’t get the distinction, so you may have to explain why you need to take 20 photos to get one useable image and talk to 20 people to get one useable quote.

Daniel Lee has been the editor of Jack and Jill magazine for kids since 1994. He has also written for the Nashville Tennessean, Cincinnati Enquirer, Indianapolis Star, Louisville Courier-Journal, Children's Digest and U.S. Kids.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY DANIEL LEE