The car came to a stop throwing up dust on the dirt parking lot. It had been a 10-hour drive from San Diego and I could hear the complaining before the doors even opened. Out of the hot car poured my young cousins: Matt, a typical hard-to-please 15-year-old; Charlie, a 10-year-old always buried in a book, and Katie, a 9-year-old who doesn’t leave the house without a fashionable change of clothes. My aunt greeted me with, “I told you we wouldn’t like this!” I announced over the din, “Everyone take a deep breath and let’s get on the water.” Before us stood Wahweap Marina and our 75foot houseboat, replete with a ski boat, wave runners, two gas grills, state-of-the-art entertainment system, and even a hot tub. In the distance, the shimmering waters of Lake Powell and the spectacular red cliffs of the National Park System’s Glen Canyon National Recreation Area called. We hadn’t finished burying the anchors on a sandy beach in an idyllic inlet, before the grumbling was replaced with squeals of joy as the kids launched themselves into the lake via the houseboat’s water slide. These squeals continued uninterrupted from dawn to dusk for our entire stay. I had long wanted to teach the kids how to fish, and the kids couldn’t wait. I set them up with poles and hot dog bait before I fired-up the first round of margaritas for my adult family members. They had to serve themselves though as hollering from the back of the boat signaled Charlie’s first fish ever. I had barely finished Charlie’s official “First Fish” pic, when Katie complained about being “stuck on the bottom”. I knew better and told her to keep reeling. Her unbounded excitement of catching her first fish was only moderated by her concern that she might accidentally touch the fish.
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