From the Crow’s Nest
by CLINT YOUNTS
After this week I had at work, I need a vacation. Seemed like every day, somebody brought in a sick cat or some dog with a broken leg. Just because we work at an animal hospital, folks think they can bring in their sick pets. We would much rather see cute, healthy puppies and kittens. Sick critters make us work harder, and hard work is rough on the body and mind. Yep, I need some time off, again.
The problem that I have is that I just came back from a week-long vacation at Padre Island, and I think I may have become addicted to island life. Seven days of doing pert-near nothing. Wake up whenever your bladder tells to it’s time to get out of bed. I’d drink coffee on the balcony, watching a Case tractor rake up the seaweed that washed up overnight. After a quick breakfast and a thorough application of SPF 15, we’d head down to the sandy beach to watch the pelicans and fishing boats cruise by.
By taking our vacation after school started, we shared this quiet stretch of beach with a few gulls and sandpipers, plus one large humpback Yankee that often washed up on shore. I took naps under the umbrella, lulled to sleep by the waves rolling in, regaining all the hours of lost sleep that occurred throughout the past year.
Seven days with my toes in the sand, a Clive Cussler book in my hand, listening to Jimmy Buffett and Kenny Chesney. Nowhere to go, no time to be there. Very little physical activity besides moving the chairs to catch what little shade our colorful umbrella provided. Cleansing my mind and body with salty air and ice-cold beverages, with lime added to ward off scurvy. Nothing to do but relax and recharge. When I looked around to observe the other denizens of the beach, it appeared this island attitude is contagious. There were guys like me, perhaps a bit older and not nearly as buff, reclined in a chair, facing the endless sea, sipping on some nectar of the gods, not a worry in the world, dreaming of retirement. No one was thinking of battling traffic twice a day. None of us was thinking of the pile of paperwork accumulating on our desk. Heck, towards the end of the week, most of us had forgotten what we do for a living.
Seven days of vacation. Seems like an eternity when you have to spend it somewhere you don’t want to be, but on an island, surrounded by seawater and tranquility, seven days pass much too quickly. Just seven sunrises over the gulf waters, seven mornings of watching pelicans soaring in the pink sky, mere feet from the sleepy waves, looking for a briny drive-thru to grab a little breakfast. Just seven glorious sunsets over the bay, signaling that it’s about time to head back down to the beach to watch the moon and stars dance on the black seas.
Seven days of vacation may be enough for some folks, guys who are focused on making even more money than they need. Guys who can’t sit still and simply take life easy. Men who have their minds and stressed hearts stuck in overdrive, believing there will be plenty of time for vacations once they make a boatload of money and can retire. There was a time not too long ago when I felt like I must work seven days a week. Having a real job plus a ranch and rental property, there was always work to do; I’ve spent hours on a Ford tractor on a Sunday while most folks are relaxing by the pool or napping on the couch. When some smarter fellas were holding a fishing pole or a 9-iron, I was holding a chainsaw.
Seven days of work, no days of resting a bad back or tired eyes, was taking a toll on my body and soul. An occasional trip to Port Aransas would give me a quick recharge, providing me with a sample of island life that my body craved, allowing me to continue working back home. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love the life I’m living. It’s the only one I have, and I’ll continue to live this life as long as life will let me live it. But, after seven days of sitting on a sandy beach, gazing into the orange-lit morning of a new day, I realized that life is way too short to spend it working your body into an early grave. This old cowboy has shifted his rusty truck back into second gear, slowing down to see what’s passing by his bug-smeared windshield.
Across the pond, in most European countries, the law mandates that all employees receive at least four weeks of paid vacation. Some countries like Finland, Austria and Switzerland give out six weeks of vacation. Italy and Portugal celebrate 16 holidays as paid days off. I suppose that’s because of all the patron saints they have over there, where we only celebrate St. Patrick and St. Nick, and only Christmas is a paid holiday, although I suspect lots of Irish Americans and green beer consumers miss work the day following St. Paddy’s Day.
What I found interesting about European countries providing so much vacation is that they have a lower unemployment rate than the U.S. There is less employee turnover, divorce and suicide. Plus the average life expectancy in several European nations is much higher than ours. The French take 31 days of vacation a year to sit around, drinking wine and eating snails. You’d think with all that extra time, the women would shave their armpits more often.
I am sickened to learn that Europeans are smarter than us when it comes to enjoying life. While we are toiling our lives away, the funny-talking folks across the Atlantic are chillin’ on the Riviera or sledding down the Alps. After seven days on Padre Island, I, for one, am changing my lifestyle. No more 7-day workweeks. No more days at the clinic and evenings on a tractor. I’d consider moving to Sweden, but they don’t serve Mexican food or Lone Star beer over there. If the United States continues to be a “No Vacation Nation”, well, I’m going to secede from the union and head back to the island.
Clint Younts likes to do his tanning, shirt on, while he works at a veterinary clinic and while running cattle on his property. But you can also find him with dreamy look in his eyes – and picking sand out of his navel.
