beach bums


We spent the weekend in the salt and sand. We packed light, flew by the seat of our pants, and tried not to plan anything too far in advance. It was ideal and it was us at our very best. We left behind the computers, the unwritten emails, the homework, the video games, the yet unvarnished patio furniture, and the breakfast dishes in the sink. I even tried to leave my phone. Alas, one cannot properly play the car DJ without a music source.


My normally serene car riders spent the last few miles in impatient agony. It’s quite torturous to drive down the coast with salty air invading your senses and momentary peeks of sand between the buildings. So close and just not. there. yet.

Thank goodness it is so worth it.

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No trip of ours would be complete without one good fiasco. We didn’t make it out of Alabama before popping a light on the dash. We’d managed to pick up a lovely little screw that wedged itself nice and deep in the tire tread, providing us with a slow leak. Caleb decided to just keep the tire aired up and worry about fixing it when we got home.

Therefore, every morning we did this:


These guys are complete beach bums. We go infrequently enough they forget what it’s like. And when those little feet hit the sand again for the first time it is suddenly the most spectacular place in the world.

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If only I could bottle their joy and dispense it on a rainy day.

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The boys didn’t want to leave and there was the usual talk of “Can we ever live here?” But honestly, coming home was just as fun in its own way. It’s entirely possible we are content with being together, wherever. Imagine that.

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