The Beauty of a Beach House Without the House

Part 2: Don’t Get Tied Down and Lose the Shoes

Last week I wrote about opening our RV, or as my four-year-old grandson refers to as Grandma’s tiny house located a mile from the beach at the Jersey Shore. 

The first morning in our tiny house, a stream of light cut through my bedroom window and gently brushed across my face like a feather, awakening me. Outside my window, children laughed and squealed, and when I looked out, I happily discovered them riding their bikes around the campground. How refreshing to see children playing outside!

I jumped out of bed, threw on shorts, tank top, and slipped on my flip-flops before hopping on my sea-foam green beach cruiser and pedaling toward the beach. A breeze blew through my hair as I detoured through a neighborhood of refurbished old Victorian homes, freshly painted in pinks and purples, framed with huge wraparound porches decked with yellow daffodils and with white rocking chairs. Minutes later, I parked my bike next to the pavilion on the promenade. Beckoned by the waves, I kicked off my flip-flops and sped across the cool sand, allowing it to filter through my toes. Ah—free at last!

A couple walking arm in arm, along with an occasional runner, dotted the water’s edge. The vast sea was empty except for a lone surfer paddling furiously on his board and a pair of dolphins playing tag near the jetty. I inhaled a big dose of salt air and then eased into my run along the shore, headed for the red-capped lighthouse looming in the distance.

In succession, waves unfurled and crashed, leaving the remnants of a milk mustache quickly wiped away by Mother Nature. A family of baby seagulls in training fluttered across the tops of the water and back again in search of food.   

Soothed by the melody of crashing waves, I plodded in the wet sand, my toes kissed by the cool water. I looked up, greeted by the caw of a seagull who swooped into the sea, snatching his breakfast. In communion with the ocean, framed by the bluest sky, this is my slice of heaven. Untethered by the confines of life, I soar to the lighthouse. My run complete, and inspired by the sea, I returned to my tiny house to write and write and write some more. 

Shellie

Where the rhythm of the road meets the rhythm of the page