10 Pounds of Vacation in a 5-Pound Bag: The Art of Overpacking With Kids, Dogs, and Boogie Boards

Packing for vacation is easy.
Said no one with a big family, five dogs, and a 3-row SUV ever.

There’s an art to it. A science. A delicate balance between geometry, physics, hope, and delusion. And in our case, just enough chaos to keep things spicy.

Let me paint the picture: we had seven passengers. Five dogs minimum. A Ford Expedition that, despite its name, was not designed for actual expeditions. And a family that couldn’t travel light if their lives depended on it.

Let’s start with the girls.

Now, I love my daughters. I would do anything for them. But these women pack like they’re fleeing a war zone and heading into a five-season reality show. Alida once packed two full suitcases, a duffle bag, and a backpack for a five-day trip. Five. Days. I asked her what was in there. She said, “Options.” I said, “What are you, a pop star on tour?”

Meanwhile, Jamie’s trying to fit the dogs’ food, treats, travel crates, blankies, and “special bowls” because God forbid they drink out of a Solo cup like regular animals.

Before we even loaded a single chair or cooler, we were already over capacity. The suspension on the Expedition groaned like it was seeing a chiropractor for the first time in years.

As the kids got older, we thought—finally, some relief. They’d start driving their own cars. Take their own stuff. Maybe even their own dogs. Freedom? Not quite. Because somehow, even with two or three vehicles caravanning to the Outer Banks, our car still had everything. We had become the family version of that one friend who always ends up carrying everyone's sweatshirts at a theme park.

At some point, I gave in and got creative.

First up: a hitch-mounted cargo platform.
Then I upgraded to weatherproof totes—because nothing says "family vacation" like digging through a wet box of tangled swimsuits and half-melted sunblock.
Next: waterproof dry bags.
Then came the giant roof bag that required both optimism and upper body strength to install.
Still not enough. So I built a custom surf fishing rod holder out of a piece of PVC gutter and some end caps. Sprayed the whole thing in rubberized bedliner like it was going to war.

It didn’t make packing easier. It just made it possible.

Jamie, bless her, is the MVP of the whole operation. She claims she was a Tetris Game Boy master as a kid, and I 100% believe her. No wasted space. She could wedge a beach umbrella between two suitcases and still make room for a tote of dog bowls and the Nintendo Wii. She doesn’t pack the trunk—she sculpts it.

Every trip followed the same ritual the night before:

• Suitcases stacked like bricks on the roof rack

• Dog cages folded and strapped tight

• Nine surf rods locked into the holder

• Duffel bags packed with reels and tackle boxes

• More suitcases, more dry bags

• A tote just for dog food

• The Nintendo Wii, obviously

• Seven beach chairs

• One giant umbrella

• A Yeti cooler roughly the size of a commercial ice machine

By the end of it, you couldn’t see out the back window. Which was fine—rear visibility was mostly for turning around to yell at whoever was smuggling snacks or accusing someone else of “stealing their charger.”

At this point, I could teach a master class on advanced ratchet strap technique. Honestly, I deserve a patch, a medal, or at the very least, a discount at Home Depot. I've turned the  cargo slap and" that will hold" into an art form.

Clark is my spirit animal

Once somehow on a return trip from Titusville Florida, I strapped the roof load down in the way that the air was catching the stuff and whenever you got to 66 MPH it started to whistle loudly, By 80mph you couldn't hear the stereo. we stopped on the side of the road and moved straps and items around while people drove past judging us in their unburdened vehicles.

And yet—every trip—there was always one more thing. One more bag. One more request.

"I forgot my other shoes."
"Do we have the air fryer?"
"Did anyone bring the snorkel fins?"
"Can we fit a sixth boogie board?"
"Can we fit a second canoe?"

I used to scoff at minimalist travel videos.
"Backpacking Europe with one pair of shoes and a dreams journal."
"Hiking the Appalachian Trail with a titanium mug and three almonds."

Meanwhile, I’m over here loading the seventh beach chair like I’m playing real-life Jenga with $1,200 worth of sunscreen and dog anxiety meds.

And let’s not forget the stares.

OBX Or Bust

Every trip to the Outer Banks, I’m convinced we passed someone on 64 who looked at our rig and thought we were leaving the Dust Bowl for a new life in California. Two dogs hanging out the windows. A sea of bags on the roof. A cooler roped on like it was trying to escape. And us, just smiling and sipping gas station coffee like we weren’t one turn away from launching a suitcase into the median.

But here’s the thing.

As ridiculous as it all was—it worked.
We got better at it. Not smarter, maybe. But more efficient.
We didn’t travel light. But we traveled together.
And somehow, that overpacked, overstuffed, over-strapped Expedition always made it there.

And so did we.

Sure, we forgot stuff. We always did.
One trip it was toothpaste.
Another time it was Jamie’s makeup bag (which I paid dearly for).
One time we had ten rods but forgot the half the reels on the table. That was a fun beach day.
But we always had the memories. And the chaos. And each other.

And usually—most of the dogs. Sorry Bella.

We always packed too much—too many bags, too many dogs, too much gear. But you can never pack too much love, too many memories, or too much time spent together. In the end, the cargo didn’t matter nearly as much as the company. And if the ride was crowded, loud, and a little chaotic… that just meant we were all in it, together.