The sun had barely risen when my dad started recounting the story again. We were halfway through packing the car for a day at Windansea Beach, and the man couldn’t help himself. “So there I was,” he began, voice lilting with anticipation, “17 years old, speeding down Coast Boulevard on my moped like I was Maverick in Top Gun…”

We kids groaned in unison. We’d heard this one a hundred times, but recounting it felt as essential to preparing for a beach day as sunscreen or sandwiches. My dad’s moped escape from La Jolla High School’s senior prank—a tale involving flamingo-pink spray paint, a poorly executed getaway, and an unsanctioned leap over a neighbor’s hedge—had become a sort of family anthem.

The truth of the story didn’t matter anymore. Each retelling grew more outrageous, more unbelievable. The flames in the hedge supposedly grew taller; the moped got faster; his spray paint masterpiece on the school quad transformed from a scrawled pacifist peace sign to an expertly rendered Banksy-style shark in sunglasses. What did matter was the way we kids would interrupt with snickers and “That didn’t happen!” while he grinned with mock indignation. It was ritual.

And that’s the thing about family stories. They’re more than just tales. They’re maps of who you are, why you think the way you do, and—if you’re lucky—why you can laugh at yourself even when things go sideways.

Chapter One: “You Came From Dolphins”

Another favorite family tale takes a sharp dive into marine biology—literally. My mom’s signature story involves her first solo dive into La Jolla Canyon as a grad student. While collecting samples, she was trailed by a pod of dolphins. “And,” she’d proclaim while setting down dinner plates with dramatic flair, “that is why every one of you kids is half marine mammal. I spent months swimming with them while I was pregnant with your brother!”

Obviously, she was kidding. (Mostly. Scientists are quirky like that.) But the idea that we were somehow “marked” by the ocean wove itself into everything my siblings and I did. It justified marathon tide-pooling sessions while our friends were chillin’ at the movies. It informed late-night conversations about climate change before they were mainstream. And it absolutely shaped my worldview as someone who believes the natural world carries stories just as vital as human ones.

“Listen,” Mom would say while holding up one of our prized finds—a shimmering abalone shell or a sand dollar so fragile it felt like paper in your hand. “Look at the design. Everything’s trying to tell you something. Most people just don’t slow down long enough to hear it.”

Legend vs. Legacy

But let me pause for a second. Are family stories all charming little parables that mold you into a better person? Oh, no. No, no, no. Sometimes they’re more like life lessons wrapped in stand-up comedy.

Take Uncle Rick. (Cue the sigh.) Uncle Rick is a retired fisherman known for making family holidays…interesting. His go-to story of “The Time I Survived a Kraken” is better classified as a drunken wrestling match with a runaway marine net. But somehow it became the legend responsible for why he refuses to ride in boats over 30 feet long, citing “bad energy.”

Rick’s tales ended up teaching me something valuable, though: know your audience. Esteemed environmental scientists like my mom did not appreciate his exaggerated fish stories or “man vs. the ocean” tangents delivered over Thanksgiving turkey. I quickly learned that not all stories—true or overblown—need the same setting or delivery. (Also not every story deserves to crash the mashed potatoes.)

Learning to Swim in Your Own Truth

Storytelling is pretty much the currency of family gatherings, but it’s also the way we define ourselves as individuals. At some point, you have to decide which stories you claim as your own and how they shape your perspective.

For example, growing up as the daughter of a marine biologist means you look at relationships as ecosystems. My parents laid that groundwork without even realizing it.

Dad’s dramatized moped tale? It taught me that humor and storytelling can turn even your worst blunders into gold. That one embarrassing first date with the over-chewer of gum? It’s slapstick wisdom now for my best friends—and a reminder that cringing at yourself is healthier than wallowing.

Mom’s dolphin mythology? That planted a quiet obsession with communication across boundaries. Dating someone who’s wildly different from you? It’s less “Ugh, they don’t get me” and more, “What signals are we missing here? Should I try sonar? Should I double-tap their pun in a text?” Life is just better when you believe everyone, in their own way, is trying to communicate beautifully—even if it’s with terrible dad jokes.

Just Add Salt Water

I think the magic of family stories is how they remind you that life doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful. There are metaphors in messes and humor in hindsight. The trick is accepting that your proudest moments might not be the ones people remember most. My dad? The guy who once lectured on business ethics at a local college? Nah. He’ll forever be “the spray paint and moped guy.” My mom? A brilliant scientist who’s helped protect marine ecosystems? She’s still “Dolphin Mom” to us. And honestly, that’s perfect.

So next time you’re around your family, take a moment to listen. Maybe even ask for the story you’ve heard a thousand times before. If nothing else, it’s a reminder that the people who truly know you have always been narrating you into existence—even if sometimes their version has pink spray paint or a mythical squid fight.

And if your family doesn’t have stories? Start one. The best ones tend to be slightly ridiculous, slightly exaggerated, and unmistakably you.