The breeze was picking up and the water a little choppy down near the Morehead City waterfront one morning last week, and the conditions were wreaking havoc with our kayak formation. But for families, staying together has never been easy.

This particular voyage, organized splendidly by wife Coni — as all of ours have been, found sons Mac and Sam sliding over the waves in various directions, their boats like knives in soft butter. Daughter Louisa looked as if she had brought a Barcalounger along as she leaned back slightly in her "Featherlight" kayak, eyes steady on her own horizon and turning her paddle with skill and confidence. Mom was having a little trouble at first getting oriented near the shore and was being helped by our patient guide, Donna of Pirate Queen Paddling.

I, meanwhile, despite zealous effort, seemed to be heading out to sea.

"Dad, where are you going," kids called out, with measurable glee I thought, as the tide or a greater power pulled me out. "How do I turn this thing around," I asked, though no one was near enough to hear. But just before I got in the way of the big boats I remembered my training sufficiently to point myself back toward the group.

And so it began — a family flotilla of kayaks, out together but scattering in different directions. It's hard for us to stay close, especially with unseen winds and currents pulling us apart.

In earlier journeys with younger lives, this togetherness wasn't so difficult. We bicycled in Maine and in Lancaster, Pa., with Sam on a tiny bike, legs spinning like pinwheels but still keeping up. Louisa, too young to ride, sat comfortably attached to my bike in a special cart.

"I need a drink," would come this little voice as the rest of us struggled up the next hill. Or, "More snacks, please."

The five of us biked past the rocky Northern seashore where the gull snatched Mac's peanut butter sandwich, still in its plastic bag, and on to the campground where we all feasted on lobster. We rode down Pennsylvania hills with Amish kids racing us on the slimmest of scooters — with no shoes but smiles wider than the countryside.

We walked the graveyard in Halifax, Nova Scotia, where some of the Titanic's dead were buried, searching for Jack, of course. There were hard-ground nights near the Pisgah forest, the boys and I plotting to haul away souvenir rocks for the front yard. The five of us wandered the halls of Washington, D.C., and joined the parades of Disney World, Myrtle Beach and Busch Gardens. We rejoiced in the shells of Cape Lookout and the nearby serenity of the Crystal Coast, where we were again this day.

With a little more instruction and some technique adjustment, the flotilla gathered itself in formation tight enough to safely pass the channel markers and head toward Sugarloaf Island. We would be returning soon to say goodbye to our guides and head back home. No pictures, just memory to seal this newest set of moments.

As quick as a freshened breeze, elementary and middle school had become high school and college, and the tides grow still stronger. Coni and I can feel them pulling us out where we're unsure of the current, while the kids relish the rush.

But that's how it is with families. They have to learn new strokes, keep their kayaks pointed into the waves and let the new breezes carry them — straight and true toward that next shoreline.

Al Clark is executive editor of The Daily Reflector. Tell him what you think at aclark@coxnc.com or at 252-329-9560.