"Explain this to me again," he said. "Why couldn't we have flown Air Force One?"

"Because President Bartlet asked us to go early."

"Are you sure he asked?"

"Does it really matter? Look, think of it this way. We don't have to listen to the President spurt random facts about the mating habits of blue whales as we fly."

"He knows about the mating habits of blue whales?" I don't think I'll answer that. "No matter how much I can't *stand* his lectures on all things boring, I'd much rather fly Air Force One than have to pay for my very own first-class ticket."

"You'd rather fly coach?"

"I'd rather not take the money from my own pocket."

"We can't cheat the taxpayers out of two first-class tickets, Josh."

"We can't? Then what, pray tell, are we doing in Washington?"

"Going to Ireland." The line was too good to pass up, especially with a smirk. If only he hadn't given me a sour expression back.

"Why not let the IRA and Northern Ireland duke it out and whoever is left standing last wins?"

"And what kind of fun is that?"

"Much more fun than flying to Dublin to try and work out a peace deal. I say we should leave it to the British."

"And you see how wonderful they've done?"

"And we can do better?"

"President Bartlet thinks so."

"And what he says goes?" I can't believe you just asked that, Josh.

"Without question." You're going to talk back to the President of the United States?

"Some days I forget who I work for."

"I don't see how."

"I mistake the Secret Service and the Marine guard for slave drivers." He's got a point there. "How much longer until we board?"

"The plane takes off in half an hour. Should be anytime now." He nods then picks up a copy of the Washington Post to delve into. I've got my laptop, but I have no desire to write. Toby'd kill me if he knew I had yet to add anything to these comments. I'll probably get an e-mail asking for progress, not to mention a page. I'm working on it, Toby. Truly. Let's see here… Reading back over what I have isn't helping any. I know I was on a roll yesterday. If C.J. hadn't decided to do the Jackal last night, I probably would have this silly thing finished. Come on fingers, do your trick.

Click, click, click. `The.' I know I can do better than that. The what, though? `The state of affairs in Ireland…' No. Delete. `The uneasiness in Ireland…' Ugh. Let's try again. `The world deserves a peaceful place to live…' This is ludicrous. I know I can do this. Let's try this angle: `You should settle your differences.

How long have you been fighting? A lot longer than the Republicans and Democrats! Even our Civil War only lasted four years. Brendan Behan once said that, "Other people have a nationality. The Irish have a psychosis." Snap out of it…' Woo, Sam Seaborn. You're getting a tad out there. President Bartlet would never speak so frankly. Would be nice if he would, though. Backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace.

"Now boarding flight five hundred to Dublin."

"That's us, Ink-boy." Gee, thanks, Josh. Save. Maybe I'll come up with something on the plane. Probably not, but there's always hope. Man, I can almost hear Toby's voice growling at me, preaching about the dreaded writers' block and using punctuation.

Ah, well. Where'd I put my ticket? "I still don't see why we couldn't have flown Air Force One. And why we don't get to bring a staff." Am I going to have to listen to this all the way to Ireland?

"Tickets please."

"Why hello there," said Josh. Tell me he's not flirting.

You're taken, Josh, by my cousin. You know, the girl who's always darting around the White House and the Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters. Hello! He's going on to his seat. Maybe he's not flirting. Maybe it's me being over-protective again. Crystal still needs somebody to look out for her.

To this day, I'm not sure where this big brother instinct comes from, especially since I'm the youngest of three children. It always seemed like Crys needed a protector, though, from something or other given that she was always getting into trouble. Oh, and I will never forget the day she wound up on the set of "The Dukes of Hazzard." The show hadn't even started on TV yet. There she was, though, sitting on the hood of the General Lee beside John Schneider, also known as Bo Duke, eating lunch that the catering service had provided. She was only fourteen at the time, visiting us that summer. Brilliant me, I decided to take her to watch my friends and me play basketball. How was I to know she wouldn't find the game nearly as interesting as we did? She's sitting just off the blacktop court, I go to take a shot, and when I look back, she's gone. I panicked, for all of thirty seconds, before organizing the search parties. Yes, search parties. She had been vanishing for years, though usually it was never very far. We were used to it; we all knew the drill. Partner up, split up, scour L.A., and regroup in an hour. In fact, by that time, we had already made up permanent searching parties and had set streets that we would search. We always claimed we could cover more ground in an hour than the LAPD.

Whether that was true or not, I'm not sure. But we were rather thorough and quite proficient. In fact, by the last summer Crys spent with us in California, we had all chipped in and bought walkie- talkies and had given each other nicknames. I was "Jaws," named for the James Bond villain. I hated braces. Crys, on the other hand, was quite smitten with a certain blond-hared TV country boy. For a while there, I didn't think she'd ever outgrow her crush.

"Sam?" Wait… That's Josh's voice.

"Hmm?"

"Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Seaborn?" Oh. It's a flight attendant. "Perhaps you'd like an aspirin?" What is she talking about? Maybe Josh knows.

"She's been waiting on you to give her your drink order for like ten minutes. You've been somewhere else." As a matter of fact, Josh, I've been in L.A. "You okay, there, pal?"

"Yeah. Just some water, please." She's nodding like I'm from outer space or something. At least she's fixing me a cup.

"Mr. Seaborn."

"Thanks." Josh is absorbed in his Post again. At least I have the window seat. Look at that ocean. Isn't it something? I grew up surfing but I still find oceans amazing things, so large and powerful… Maybe I can incorporate that into President Bartlet's remarks. If I can only reach my carry-on… Why you have to store your gear under the seat in front of you or over your head, I still don't know. You know, with the tray table down, it makes it even harder. Here's a pen… Aha! The legal pad. The Atlantic Ocean… The Atlantic Ocean… Crys and that summer… Oh, God, that summer.

I remember the summer of 1982 clearly. I had just graduated from high school and already had my summer planned. It was time to catch up on some TV and lounging on the couch. Unfortunately, Mom had other ideas. She turned off the TV.

"I was watching that, Mom."

"You've seen that rerun twelve times."

"Only eleven…" Tell me she didn't hear that.

"I don't see how you can go from high school graduate to couch potato to Princeton freshman!"

"Mom!" As if I haven't heard that speech enough. I could carry on that conversation with myself having committed her what-are- you-going-to-do-with-the-rest-of-your-life speech to memory because I had heard it three times already since commencement the week before.

"You spend this whole summer lying around here and Princeton will sneak up on you."

`It's a college, Mom. Colleges don't sneak.' If only I had the guts to say that.

"You don't even have a major decided yet!"

`You think I spent my afternoons for the past three years working at Dad's law firm to do something other than practice law?'

"With you stretched out on my sofa with your expensive Nikes on my upholstery, how will I ever host your father's dinner party next week?"

`A bunch of stuffy old people telling boring stories. Who cares!'

"Are you even listening to me, Samuel Norman Seaborn?"

`Yes.' Oops. "Yes." Whenever she called me by my full name, enunciating every last syllable as if forgetting one meant the difference between life and death, my own, I know I'm in trouble. "What do you want me to do, Mom?" Wash the windows? Clean the rug?

"Your cousin Crystal has called for you twice since last week. Are you ever going to forgive her?" Now, what on Earth does Crystal have to do with appeasing Mom?

"She didn't even come up to see graduation." She had promised me she'd fly up for it. She had *promised* me.

"Schools in Virginia just got out for the summer."

"What do you learn the last five days of your junior year anyway?"

"She truly wanted to come, Sam. Your Aunt Julia says Crystal has been moping around for the entire week."

"Aunt Julia could have prevented it if she had just let Crys skip, at most, two days of school."

"And what kind of example would that set?"

`Who cares!' Instead, I shrugged.

"Go call your cousin," said Mom, pushing my feet off the couch. "In fact, she's got some news for you, so I hear." Okay, okay. I'm going.

The den was always quiet during the day with Dad at work. Let's see, if it's ten AM here, it's one o'clock in Virginia. I hope she's already eaten lunch. Crys answered on the second ring.

Her "hello" had been rather downcast, but, as soon as she realized who she was talking to, her voice had risen several octaves. She asked dozens of questions, like what kind of a haul I had made in graduation presents, how the ceremony had been, and if I attended any parties afterwards. When she was done, it was my turn to ask questions. "Mom tells me you have news for me?"

"Yeah. What're your plans for the summer?" Eventually, I knew she'd grow out of her thick Southern drawl. I didn't know how long it would take, though.

"I dunno. Figured I'd watch a lot of TV and try not to drive Mom too crazy until you get here, anyway."

"Sam, I'm not comin' to L.A. this summer." Add insult to injury, there, Crys. First you don't come to my high school graduation, and now you're not coming to spend the summer? You've spent ten summers over here. You can't stop now…

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I've got a better idea." Mischief. The unmistakable sound of mischief in her voice. I should have known.

"Oh?" Dare I ask? "What might that be?" Do I really want to know?

"Why don't you come to Virginia?" I had never stopped to think about that, but, upon hearing it, it sounded like fun. I could meet some new people, pick up a Southern twang to annoy Mom, not to mention take in the sights. Plus, and perhaps best of all, I could miss out on Dad's dull cocktail parties.

Two days later, I was on a plane headed east. Mom said I had actually flown in an airplane before. I don't remember it. She says I was little. I'm still kind of surprised Mom and Dad decided to let me go to Virginia, flying alone. My parents had warned me that take- off and landing are the scariest parts of the flight. Crys said they weren't bad, leaving me to wonder who I should believe. Crys had offered advice, too, like bring a pack of chewing gum and a good book.

Mom's warning about take-off had worried me so much that, when the plane started to soar into the sky, I couldn't help but laugh. Crys had been right. I knew I should have believed her from the start. I had brought a real page-turner of a book and wound up finishing it about halfway through the flight. It was kind of nice, though, because I got to watch the landscape roll by underneath me.

The plane touched down at Dulles Airport outside of Washington. I had never been to Washington D.C., let alone Virginia. I knew I was going to have an awesome couple months. Crys met me at the gate. She had chopped off her hair at her chin, which actually looked pretty nice on her. It almost bordered on punk, which, I'm sure, Aunt Julia and Uncle John loved. I wouldn't have recognized her if not for her glasses. "You made it!"

"Of course!" I picked her up in a hug, like I had done for the past couple years. "Hey, Crys!"

"Put me down, you! One of these days, you won't be able to do that anymore."

"Want to make a bet?"

"Come on, college boy. You hungry? I know this great little restaurant we can stop at before we go home."

"Aunt Julia won't cook?"

"Are you kiddin'?" Crys asked. "You do remember last Christmas, don't you? Mom's attempt at fruitcake? I mean, it'd be one thing if everybody liked fruitcake, but not everybody does. And with Mom at the helm of the kitchen, look out!"

"I am a little hungry. You were right. The food on airplanes is terrible!" She grinned.

"Told ya. Come on!"

We had stopped for lunch in a little café in the District, commemorating my first trip to the Capital, she had said. As we were served our meal, Crys pointed out a pair of Senators who had strolled in and taken a booth not far from our table. I was, of course, star struck. Afterwards, she had driven me around the city to take in the sights. I must admit, the city was positively thrilling. My favorite stop was the White House. It was the one official tour we went on. I never once, in my wildest dreams, figured I'd end up working there one day. As I walked down those hallowed halls all those years ago, I felt a tingle run up and down my spine. When I returned a little over a year and a half ago to that building on Pennsylvania Avenue, I have to admit, that same spine-tingling feeling swept through me. I love D.C.

"Mr. Seaborn?" Again, I was pulled from my thoughts.

There's the flight attendant, looking as worried as before. "Your breakfast?"

"Thanks." A cardboard container was set before me, leaving me to wonder what, exactly, was waiting inside and if I even wanted to touch it. As the flight attendant walked off, I asked Josh. "What do you think it is?"

"I don't know, but I'm starving. Maybe a bagel or-" By the look on his face, it must not be pretty. "Raisin Bran."

"Really?" I asked, peeking at his breakfast.

"No." He had a bagel with cream cheese packets on the side, a glazed doughnut, and some sort of Danish. "You going to see what she brought you?" Opening mine, I found the same contents, only there was an envelope taped to the lid of the cardboard container. "Ooh, a secret message."

"You know anything about this, Josh?" I asked as I pulled the envelope off the lid.

"You know me, Sam. What do I know?"

"Right."