The limpet factor

On our first father-daughter trip, my father and I had to create a new verb: limpet. As in "I limpet, you limpet, he/she/it limpets."

The action of limpeting was quite simple: Whenever I became too tired, too overwhelmed, too "too" in general, I would latch onto my father's arm and refuse to budge. Limpeting served me well through many an overly exciting adventure on those first few trips, and it became a common part of our vocabulary. When the women of Santa Monica strutted past me in bras that were simply too pointy, when we had climbed one too many pyramids in the Yucatán, when I didn't want the cockroach in the corner of our room in Costa Rica to be my special friend any longer, I would sidle up to my father and matter-of-factly declare, "I need to limpet." Without another word, the arm would be proffered, and I would cling on for dear life. And life would become a little better.

I've progressed beyond the limpeting stage by now. I like to think I'm a slightly more useful traveling companion today, prepared to peer dazedly at maps with the best of them, and at least attempt to ask anyone any question in any language. Though I'm still not keen on cockroaches, I can blunder my way through almost anywhere without the need to squeeze my eyes shut and cling to my papa's arm.

Then again, I know that if I need to, I always can.

— Lillian Cantwell