The happiest pirate on Earth

LIKE A LOT OF DADS, I have a love-hate relationship with Disneyland. First, I can never get past a bad stock purchase I made back when Disney hired Ovitz and I thought it would rule the world.

“We have that on our ‘buy’ list,” my broker said at the time.

“Then let’s be bold about it,” I told her.

Savvy move. I no longer invest in Disney stock. Instead, we just come down to the Magic Kingdom and throw big wads of cash in the air. It’s cheaper that way.

I also have had some interesting experiences at Disneyland. A mother -- there’s no better term -- once pushed a baby stroller up my Achilles tendon and almost to my buttocks, at which point she realized that she had pushed a stroller on to the buttocks of a man she didn’t know and backed off a little, out of sheer courtesy.

“That feels so good,” I said at the time, or words to that effect.

That’s the hate part.

Mostly, I love Disneyland, the colors, the crowds, even the lines. Nope, I don’t even mind standing in line with sweaty strangers hour after hour, the blood pooling in my ankles. It’s a small price to pay for precious time with the kids.

“What’s your name again?” I ask one of them.

“Who?”

“You.”

“Mom!”

Oops, wrong kid. Oh, our kids are over there, running wild on Main Street U.S.A. They are walk-skipping with a woman who has two cameras bouncing on her hip. Cecil B. DeMom: my wife, my costar, my cinematographer.

“Come on, Dad!” someone says.

“Hurry,” says Cecil B. DeMom.

As you may have heard, Disneyland is now 50, but doesn’t look it. Not a day over 45, in fact. Disneyland is sort of like Michelle Pfeiffer. You know she’s getting up there but don’t really want to know how far.

“Think they’ll let me fish here?” I ask the little girl while we wait for a boat at It’s a Small World.

“Dad!”

“I’m just asking,” I explain.

Small World has a holiday theme going, which dampens the head-banging repetition of the usual “Small World” lyrics, a song that has prompted many men to leap to their deaths. Not today. Today, we see what Christmas is like in Africa and, I think, Norway. Though it might’ve been upper Minnesota. You know, the iron range region up around Duluth.

“Where next?” asks my lovely and patient older daughter.

“Thunder Mountain?” I suggest, and they pat me on the back like I just won at bingo.

What I’ve always appreciated about Disneyland is that it is one of the few public venues without a scent. There is almost no smell. Just a wondrous blandness that captures the essence of the place.

“Hey, look at the lake,” I say as we near Frontierland.

“That’s a river,” corrects a worker with a broom and a dustpan.

“Whatever,” I say.

“See them ducks?” he says, pointing to a dozen mallards.

“You do much hunting here?” I ask.

“Honey?” he asks.

“No, hunting,” I say.

“Honey?” he says, brow bending, wondering if he should make some sort of arrest.

“Dad, let’s go,” says one of the kids, who are always interfering when I’m trying to make new friends.

Now, a lot of amazing things have happened to me: marriage, children, steady employment. But nothing tops what happened to us next. We walked right up and boarded Pirates of the Caribbean. Wait time? Zilch.

“I don’t believe this,” my wife says.

“Take a picture!” says the little girl.

Pirates is a sensational ride, of course, featuring thievery, debauchery, fires and cannon fights. Naturally, I find the romance in the moment.

“Stop it!” scolds Cecil B. DeMom when I get a little grabby.

“Stop what?” I ask.

“I’ll scream,” she warns.

“Arrrgh!” I say, though I noticed on the next turn, she leaned into me a little. Women. They’re always attracted to the bad pirate.

“Arrrgh,” says the toddler.

“Don’t push your luck,” I tell him.

The rest of the evening is pretty much a blur. We watched a parade where all I could think about was how cold that poor mermaid must’ve been.

“She’s got a leotard,” explained someone nearby. Whew.

Then we waited for the tram to the parking garage for at least 45 minutes, a little uncertain about where we parked.

Three days later we were still there, wandering the parking lot, looking for the white minivan. Any white minivan. Just something to hot-wire and get out of there.

We spent Christmas Day in that huge parking garage, wandering like Wise Men, swearing we’d never make a rookie mistake like that again. Because, by then, most everyone else had found their cars, returned home and were opening gifts.

“Thanks, Dad,” the little girl said when we finally left.

Arrrgh. Love Disneyland. Love it.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.