Every June, my family heads out on what we proudly call The Family Trip. It started years ago when we realized that if we didn’t pencil in time together, life would erase it for us. So every summer, around the third week of June, our family — cousins and friends included — agree to meet at the agreed-upon spot for about a week of what has become a wonderful tradition. It’s part reunion, part circus, and all love.

One of those early years, we stayed at Sea Trails Plantation down at Sunset Beach. We were younger then, the kids were smaller, and patience was in short supply. Somewhere along the line, it became our custom to do a fishing charter because my dad loves to fish. If Dad could cast a line off the back porch and call it a good day, he would.

That particular morning found us standing at the dock in Calabash, North Carolina, waiting on a boat that was supposed to leave at eight o’clock sharp. The problem was, the boat had a very casual relationship with the concept of time. The sun wasn’t just shining — it was bearing witness. You could feel it bouncing off the water, baking the boards under our feet, and turning good intentions into bad moods.

My nephew Brenton and my son Joey were fired up for their grand seafaring adventure, but after half an hour of waiting, their enthusiasm started to wilt faster than lettuce in August. The murmurs began. “What’s taking so long?” “I’m thirsty.” “It’s too hot.” Someone muttered something about asking for a refund. The griping spread like humidity — thick and sticky.

Reginald, Barry, and I were all hot too, but trying our best to act cool — literally and figuratively. I’d love to say we were as calm as Dad, but that would be stretching the truth further than a fishing story at the supper table.

Then I looked over at my dad.

There he sat, calm as a preacher on a Sunday morning, cap pulled low, not saying a word. He wasn’t fanning himself, wasn’t fussing, and if he was sweating, he didn’t seem to care. He just sat there, smiling faintly, as if he were in an air-conditioned room sipping a cold Pepsi instead of roasting on the dock at Calabash. Back then, Dad chewed tobacco, and when I looked closer, I could see he had his chew in, just as content as a man could be.

That’s when I realized: Dad was top 33 percent material.

My friend Scott once told me about something called The 33 Percent Rule. It came from Sue Enquist, the great UCLA softball coach. She said people generally fall into three groups:

• The bottom 33 percent — the professional complainers, who can find a cloud inside any silver lining.
• The middle 33 percent — the fair-weather crowd, cheerful when things go their way.
• And the top 33 percent — the ones who choose gratitude no matter the temperature, traffic, or tardy fishing boat.

That morning, I’m pretty sure the Scales family covered all three categories. Most of us were firmly in the middle, leaning hard toward the bottom. But Dad? He was sitting up there in the top tier, content as could be.

When the boat finally arrived, most of us were hot and grumpy. We caught a few fish and sweated through every bit of it. But you could never tell how we did by Dad’s mood. The man was just happy to be with his boys and try to catch some fish.

That’s the part that sticks with me. Life’s a lot like that dock at Calabash — you can stand there and grumble about the heat, or you can sit back, take a sip of something cold, and enjoy the waiting.

I’ll admit, I still spend too much time in that middle 33 percent. But I’m working on it. These days, when I start to feel the complaints bubbling up, I think about my dad sitting there with that quiet grin, unfazed by the heat or the delay, a pinch of tobacco in his cheek, and peace written all over his face.

That’s the kind of person I want to be when I grow up — steady, thankful, and maybe, just maybe, sipping a cold Diet Mountain Dew at the top of the 33 percent.

As Best As I Remember It.