Phone-Free Fun Zone

Unplugging allowed us to re-connect at the cabin.

By Christy Heitger-Ewing There was a day when our boat’s glove compartment stored only lip balm, sunscreen and a deck of cards. Last summer, however, when I opened it up, a sea of cell phones tumbled forward. While I’ll be the first to admit that I dig technology, this was getting out of control. Don’t get me wrong. I can think of several occasions from my youth when having a cell phone on board the boat would have come in mighty handy. Like the time I was 17 and took the Sea Ray across the lake with my mom to sunbathe. We turned on the radio, spread out our beach towels, and closed our eyes to soak in the rays, oblivious to the fact that a massive storm was rolling in from the west. Had my dad been able to call and alert us of the impending danger, Mom and I could have avoided being pounded by gusty winds, blinding rain and pelting hail. Then there was the day my dad hit a rock in the middle of the river channel, effectively destroying our prop. How great would it have been to phone for help instead of having to bake in the midday sun as we waited to flag down a passing boater? When I was a tween, our family set out on an all-day excursion that involved crossing the lake, heading down the river, going through the locks, and venturing into the Great Lakes. Although the morning was clear and sunny, the skies later clouded over, and the winds kicked up, causing us to freeze our tushies off. What I wouldn’t have given to send out an SOS text, requesting hoodies and blankets. But the afternoon that my teenage brother and I were cruising down river, and he got nailed by a low-flying pooping seagull – oh, that takes the cake. Had cell phones been around back then, I would have had a field day on social media spreading the news. In Twitter parlance, think: #stickywhitebirdpoo #coveringbrothershead #lifeisgood. Although cell phones entertain, inform, and assist us, I appreciate the quiet moments when we set them aside – because I think that uninterrupted immersion in nature is so much more stimulating than logging hours of screen time. Last summer, when I opened the boat’s glove compartment and found the pile of phones, I announced right then and there, “Let’s go fishing!” Adding, “And no electronics allowed.” Surprisingly, not a soul complained. We loaded up our gear and headed out onto the tranquil lake just before dusk. My older son snooped through metal tackle boxes in search of a flashy lure, while my younger boy played with a container of wiggly worms. My 5-year-old positioned himself on the bow, staring out at the glistening water as the setting sun painted the horizon a magnificent hue. With his knees tucked under his chin, he delicately held his pole steady. It was strange to see him sit so still since at home he spent his days jumping from bunk beds, tree tops, ladders, and playground equipment. Tonight, however, he was calm, just like the water, which enabled us to listen for the blip and splash of jumping fish. Wafting campfire smoke filled our nostrils as giggles and chatter rippled over soft waves. From shore, folks strummed their guitars and sang songs. Children waved fiery sparklers, hurriedly drawing their names in the air just before the flicker fizzled out in the dim light of day. All the while, we kept our lines in the water, reacting to the occasional tug of a nibbling perch. When we returned to shore, neighbors asked if we had any luck. Though we didn’t land any whoppers, it was a magical evening, free of rings, dings and pings. “Tonight was awesome!” the kids hollered as they hauled gear up to the shed. They were right. The next morning, I left all our cell phones inside and loaded up the glove box with lip balm, sunscreen and a deck of cards. Downsizing never felt so good.