We just got back from a week in Seagrove Beach, smack in the middle of 30A—and I need a nap, a chiropractor, and maybe a silent retreat.
As empty nesters, my wife and I had this vision: a sweet beach week with the kids and grandkids, making memories and soaking in that picture-perfect Florida sun. And we did make memories. I’m just not sure how many of them didn’t involve someone crying, sunburned, or covered in sand.
Let’s start with the house. Online, it looked like a coastal dream. In person? Well, when you put 12 people, a toddler who hates sleep, and a mother-in-law with opinions about everything under one roof, you start to understand why people go on solo vacations.
And the beach… oh, the beach. You don’t just go to the beach. No, you prepare for the beach like you’re staging an invasion. Umbrellas, chairs, coolers, beach toys, SPF 1000, a Bluetooth speaker, at least one inflatable flamingo, and fifteen snacks (ten of which will be dropped in the sand within minutes). By the time we trudged down to the water each morning, I needed a nap and possibly physical therapy.
Once we got down there, the wind picked up—because of course it did—and our umbrella turned into a low-flying missile, nearly decapitating a sunbather from Ohio. One of the grandkids dropped a chicken nugget in my lap while I was trying to read, another one had a full-blown meltdown over a broken shovel, and I managed to get sunburned on just the tops of my feet. Explain that science to me.
Then there was dinner out. We made the brave decision to go as one big group. I don’t know who needs to hear this, but 5:00 p.m. is not early enough to beat the crowds on 30A. We waited an hour and forty-five minutes while wrangling overtired kids and trying to keep Grandpa from loudly commenting on the prices. By the time we sat down, I was too tired to chew and too broke to care.
But here’s the thing—I’d do it again.
Because in the middle of the chaos were those little moments that make it all worthwhile. Watching the grandkids chase crabs with flashlights under the stars. Drinking coffee on the porch with my grown kids while the house was still quiet. That one perfect hour when everyone was floating in the gulf, no one was crying, and I thought—this is it. This is the good stuff.
So yeah, I’m grumpy. I’m still shaking sand out of places sand should never be. My wallet is lighter, my back is tighter, and I may never fully recover from assembling that beach tent. But I’m grateful. Grateful for time with family, for the sound of little feet on hardwood floors, for laughter around the dinner table, and for the reminder that love—real love—is a little loud, a little messy, and absolutely worth it.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sit in complete silence, sip something strong, and look at those blurry beach photos like they’re the crown jewels of summer.