Like I said, my every attempt to enjoy the great outdoors leads to a near-death experience

Kevin first hired me back in 1996 when I arrived in Boston with a whole lot of hair, looking to begin a career. He made an interesting first impression as well. Kevin was blonde, short, refused to smile, and shook my hand harder than a constipated law school graduate. He meant well; I could tell almost immediately that he was a good person even though he advised me to wear pantyhose and stop cursing.

I’ve long ago forgiven him for an aversion to small talk, and when I moved back to Tampa we continued to keep in touch. At least once a month, I inquire about his wonderful wife and three beautiful children and he responds with hostile narratives about the Obama administration.

He is also one of my three references when I’m applying for jobs. Since I’ve been hired several times thanks to his glowing recommendation, I reward him with a visit whenever we are in Boston.

Usually the visit involves a giant jumping toy in Kevin’s living room where his oldest son teaches my kids new and fun expressions like, “You want a piece of this?”

Our visit last Tuesday involved something a bit different.

Kevin suggested we meet at Castle Island in South Boston and grab a bite to eat at Sullivan’s. Sounds reasonable enough, right?

In our infinite wisdom, Husband and I decided to take the subway and then a cab to meet Kevin and his family. We boarded the T in Beacon Hill and seemed to depart somewhere in South Limerick where the Irish have no teeth, humor, or personal hygiene. We walked for about ten minutes before realizing that taxis don’t visit that area unless summoned by a court order.

We walked through the neighborhood and our kids were amazed. They couldn’t stop staring and found the regional accents fascinating.

“Act like you’ve been here before,” Husband said.

“Will you go easy on them?” I snapped, trying to figure out which gang sign was appropriate to get across the street.

“Youngest just asked a bald-headed guy without a shirt on if he was in Good Will Hunting. I’m trying to keep us from getting killed.”

I looked at a group of girls standing near a bus station.

“They’re right about Southie women,” I said. “That five year-old just barked at me.”

We finally flagged down a cab who took us to our destination – a lovely little spot near the beach. Husband liked the family feel and our boys pointed at scenic views of Boston Harbor and the skyline.

All I could see was the goddamn birds.

At least five hundred seagulls and pigeons flew over our heads, swooping down every few minutes to snatch some bread or French fries from the fingers of squealing, happy children.

I wanted to hit someone.

“They shouldn’t feed wild animals,” I hissed. “Are people insane? These filthy creatures will eventually need to shit and my head is always their favorite target.”

Husband took one look at my mess of curly hair and said, “Maybe that’s because it reminds them of their home.”

A giant, bloated, carbohydrate-filled flying shit-machine splattered what looked like black tar on my husband’s shoulder. Instead of laughing, I wiped it off, which really just smeared it around. Then I complained of bird flu symptoms for the rest of the night.

Finally, Kevin and his family arrived and we ate our fish and chips and bottled water in something called a “picnic area.” At least we didn’t have to deal with birds and their digestive issues. Have I mentioned that Castle Island is near Logan Airport? Thankfully, dinner time with my dad while Ice Road Truckers is blasting in the background prepared me for a conversation with old friends while 747s zoom in for a landing.

It gets better.

After dinner, we walked around Fort Independence and truly enjoyed ourselves. Kevin seemed to warm up to me after determining I’m not yet a socialist. His wife laughed at all my jokes and the kids played well together.

Until Youngest tried to climb the rocks while looking for rats down by the water and cut his hand on a jagged stone.

Good times.

At the end of the evening, as scattered sprinkles turned into a torrential downpour, we ordered some famous Sullivan’s ice cream and called for a cab. Our family and Kevin’s family promised to keep in touch so we could see each other again in another seven years.

Then they went home and we waited for our taxi.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Right. Because South Boston near an empty harbor in a rainstorm is exactly where you want to find yourself at night. We called four cab companies and it was 10pm before one finally showed up. The driver must have done 80mph through the parking lot before skidding to a stop and yelling, “Get in folks, we haven’t got all night!”

No lie. The dude was from South Limerick.

Tags: Castle Island, Castle Island South Boston, South Boston, Sullivan's and Castle Island, Sullivan's and South Boston