488.8 Miles Later

My daughter and I are back at home. Rested. Relaxed. Tanned - not that we needed to work on our tans, but it's hard to avoid the sun when you sit out on the beach for two and three hours at a time, two or three times per day.

I love to travel. To be away from home. To be open to where the wind blows, follow where the Spirit leads, and be a first class passenger to wherever my feet take me.

Together we walked, talked, sat, and stared at the water.

She waded out into the surf. I watched her and filled pages in my journal.

We photographed the people, the birds, the shadows, the waves, and the grasses waving over the dunes.

We marveled at the many thousands of seashells, and wondered aloud why no animals eat dead jellyfish. We agreed that if someone could come up with a use for dead jellyfish - like powering cars or burning them for home heating - that person would be a multi-millionaire. Perhaps we should come up with a good plan. If, however, the implementation of such a plan required that we actually touch those nasty looking things, then we would graciously bow out of the competition.

These delicate plants withstand howling winds and pounding surf in ways that we strong humans cannot. In fact, they are heartier, stronger, more deeply rooted, and more courageous than they appear. I'm sure there's a lesson in that...

Mostly, we basked in the width of the beach, the vastness of the ocean, and the wonder of being alive in such a beautiful place for such a time as this. And we ate a lot of fresh seafood too.

She swore she wasn't embarrassed by my big, floppy hat and the oversized Payton Manning jersey. Her only complaint about the hat was that every time I stopped to take a picture of the two of us, it would hit her in the face, but she forgave me for that as well. She loves me, this daughter of mine. The feeling is mutual. 

More beach stories to come... right now, I've gotta go make dinner with her.