Galveston, Texas.
The morning sun filtered through the cabin’s slatted blinds, stretching long fingers of golden light across the wooden floor. The air in the living room was thick and heavy, with the warmth already tempering the inside air with intense morning rays through the large windows. The air conditioner had kept the night cold and facilitated resting sleep. Still, the morning carried a deceptive coolness as if the Gulf was offering a brief reprieve before the sun asserted its dominance yet again. Yesterday, it was well into the 100s; today, it was projected to be the same.
Everyone else remained motionless, lost in deep, unshakable sleep. The first lay curled in the pullout bed, wrapped in the soft embrace of a fleece blanket adorned with cartoon animals. Her face, peaceful, was illuminated by the angled beams of morning light, her dreams untouched by the heat pressing in from the outside world. In the lower hallway bunk, another slept in a near-perfect mirror of exhaustion, her arm draped over a pillow, body half-twisted into the chaos of a child’s deep slumber. In the loft, another still lay silent. Diem in our room, made no movement to betray her sleep. They had given themselves to rest completely, as if the weight of the road, the salt air, and the endless miles behind us had finally caught up with their faculties.
I ventured outside, alone, where the heat was already mounting and the marshland stirred with life. The grasses swayed in rhythm with the humid wind, thick and lush, a world alive with unseen creatures. Two blackbirds, perhaps grackles, engaged in a slow, deliberate dance. One, wings outstretched in a display of dominance, seemed to scold the other or possibly share a secret only birds could understand. Their dark silhouettes stood stark against the backdrop of green, their presence a reminder that even here, on the fringes of our journey, life moved in its own quiet, determined way.
The sky stretched wide over the Galveston wetlands, an endless canvas of blue interrupted by slow-moving clouds, their bellies heavy with moisture yet offering no rain. The horizon seemed impossibly close and infinitely far, as it always does near the sea. A lone house stood in the distance, nearly swallowed by the landscape as if waiting for the right moment to disappear altogether. This was a place caught between the wild and the civilized, where the land, the sky, and the water blurred into one.
By mid-morning, the heat returned in full force, clamping down on the island with an unrelenting grip. Even the wind seemed to have given up, turning sluggish as if exhausted by its movement. The city of Galveston, with its history of hurricanes and salt-worn buildings, wore the heat like an old scar, unfazed, indifferent. However, we felt it in every step, breath, and slow movement toward whatever awaited us beyond this place.
The marshland outside Galveston is deceptive. At first glance, it seems untouched, a place where time has folded in on itself, leaving only wind and water to shape the land. But look closer, and it teems with life. A dragonfly hovers midair, its black silhouette suspended against the blurred green of dense grass and scrub. Beyond it, a skeletal structure—what once might have been a small shelter—leans into the wind, its wooden beams eroded by time and salt air. A reminder that nature reclaims everything in the end.
By midday, we found ourselves at the heart of the island, where the past and present collide. The streets near the harbor pulsed with the easy-going rhythm of tourists, beachgoers, and locals, each caught in their own orbit. Shrimp boats sat docked in the marina, their masts rising like steel trees above the clutter of warehouses and seafood joints. At Willie G’s, the parking lot was packed, the air thick with the smell of fried fish and engine exhaust, a scent so uniquely Gulf Coast that it made me momentarily forget the miles of open road still ahead of us.
We drifted toward Seawall Boulevard, where the town met the ocean with a rough, unpolished edge. The Gulf stretched out before us, a restless, murky brown under the blinding Texas sun. A lone blue tent flapped near the water, a tiny refuge against the unforgiving heat. Families waded into the surf, their laughter rising above the rhythmic crash of waves. The scene was timeless—Galveston had always been a working man’s beach, a place of simple pleasures where the water, no matter its color, offered the same relief.
When I was a small boy, we lived a couple of hours north of here. My older brother and only sibling, Eric, was already in school. I would not start school until shortly after we moved to Georgia. Texas is the first place I remember in abundance. I have a memory or two of Alabama before Texas, but in Texas, I remember High School Football games, neighbors, and different places we lived. And I remember the beach. I remember going for day trips down to Galveston, crabbing, and swimming in rivers with giant rope swings hanging from trees. I can’t be sure how accurate the memories are. At this point, they could have been dreams. But the way they are attached to emotion, I’m sure they happened.
Further along the coast, kites dotted the sky like neon-colored birds, their tails streaming wildly in the wind. Each one seemed to dance with a purpose, riding the Gulf breeze with reckless abandon. Below, the storefronts and small eateries buzzed with afternoon energy, their sun-faded awnings offering patches of shade to those seeking a break from the relentless heat. A seagull perched on a streetlamp, watching it all unfold with the practiced disinterest of a creature that had seen it a thousand times before.
Diem and I, the girls still long from rising, had stayed back at the cabin. We found a carniceria for a few pieces of meat and a Kroger for a few items to cook a fresh dinner tonight. On the way back, we stopped by a Starbucks for some coffee and made a slow, deliberate return to the girls, whom we found still unstirred from the exhaustion that gripped them relentlessly.
The midday heat hung over Galveston like a damp towel, thick and unshakable, pressing down on every surface. Inside the cabin, the air was cooler, thick with the scent of simmering broth, warm spices, and the unmistakable aroma of home-cooked comfort. The kitchen had become a controlled chaos of plastic containers, half-filled wine glasses, and the slow rhythm of a meal being prepared with practiced hands.
She moved through the kitchen quietly, her back to the room, the tattoo on her shoulder blade standing out against sun-kissed skin. The counter was cluttered with remnants of the road—leftover bread from a market somewhere in New Mexico, a half-used bottle of hot sauce, and a near-empty jar of strawberry preserves. Among it all, a pot bubbled with a hearty soup, the kind that pulls you back from exhaustion and reminds you that, no matter how far you’ve traveled, food always has the power to anchor you.
The meal was simple, born of necessity and the limited ingredients in a road-weary fridge. A bowl of tender beef, potatoes, corn, and carrots sat on the counter, the broth golden in the midday light. Beside it, a bowl of sliced mangoes—bright, sweet, a small indulgence against the relentless heat. There was something sacred about this kind of meal: the way it was crafted with care even in a temporary space and turned a rented cabin into a home, if only for an afternoon.
Outside, the pool sparkled in the harsh sunlight, an oasis of blue amid the sun-scorched campground. The kids drifted in lazy circles, their laughter rising above the hum of cicadas. Floating on inflatable rings, they seemed weightless, untethered by time or place, lost in the kind of carefree joy that only comes with summer and travel. Their faces were flushed and sun-drenched, and their eyes crinkled with laughter as they splashed each other, the water cooling what the air refused to.
This was the slow rhythm of the day, a rare pause before the road called again. There was peace between the meal, the water, and the hum of the cabin—not in the grand, dramatic way of epic landscapes or awe-inspiring sunsets, but in the simplicity of the moment. The quiet bite of fresh mango. The clinking of a spoon against a ceramic bowl. The sound of children laughing in the pool. The realization that, despite the exhaustion, despite the miles ahead, this was precisely where we were meant to be.
The heat bore down on the campground, relentless and unyielding, but the day had settled into an easy rhythm, a slow exhale of time spent under the Galveston sun. Outside the cabin, laughter rang out, bright and unburdened, as the kids prepared for another dip in the pool. One, nearly swallowed by a stack of inflatable rings, waddled forward, arms barely visible through the blue and green plastic layers. She moved with determination, a tiny human buoy in pink sandals, while her sister, wrapped in a beach towel, looked on with an amused smile.
At the pool, the water shimmered under a sky so blue it felt almost unreal. Brightly colored umbrellas offered patches of shade, their hues reflecting on the wet cement. Some of us stretched out in the shallow loungers, letting the water lap lazily over sun-warmed skin, while others floated aimlessly, the weightlessness of the water a welcome escape from the pressing humidity. This was the kind of afternoon where nothing was urgent; the sun dictated the pace, and the only genuine concern was whether the breeze would pick up enough to offer momentary relief. Beyond the pool, past the orderly rows of RVs and stilted beach houses, the marshland stretched toward the horizon, wild and undisturbed.
From the cabin’s back patio, the view was a sea of green, the tops of distant houses barely peeking above the grass. A fire pit sat empty in the center of the patio, surrounded by Adirondack chairs in shades of orange, lime green, and blue—colors that clashed beautifully against the muted tones of the landscape. Jennie lounged nearby, wrapped in a towel, legs flopped over the arm of a chair, completely at ease, as if she had never known another way of living beyond the sun and the open sky. We gathered some supplies and headed across the street to the beach.
The afternoon light stretched across the beach, bathing the sand in a soft glow. The waves rolled in with rhythmic predictability, their white crests dissolving into the shallows before pulling back, leaving behind only the whisper of foam. The kids, wrapped in damp towels, walked toward the water, inflatable tubes slung over their arms, hair still wet and clinging to sun-warmed skin. The ocean air carried a hint of salt and freedom, the kind only found at the end of a long journey.
They hesitated at the shoreline, their toes sinking into the packed sand, watching as the waves beckoned them forward. A gust of wind caught the edge of a bright blue towel draped over their shoulders, sending it billowing out like a makeshift sail. With a shared glance and a burst of energy, they stepped forward, tubes bobbing at their sides as they waded into the Gulf.
Further down the beach, two of them floated effortlessly. Legs stretched over the edge of their tubes, and faces turned toward the endless sky. There was no rush now, no itinerary to follow, just the water’s slow, hypnotic rise and fall beneath them. The horizon stretched before them, where the sky and sea blended into one, a reminder that there would always be more places to go and stories to tell.
I walked the beach and watched the girls having fun in the surf. A flood of memories washed over me of old times, almost forgotten of being on the beach as a small bay. I was probably five or six years old—images of long bridges, car ferries, and endless sand and sea. Here I am forty years and a lifetime later, thankful for how it had all turned out. I love being a father, a husband, a successful businessman, and I am grateful for the memories I have. The not-so-great times elevate the power of the greatest of times. I am in one of those greatest of times now. Life is full of wonder and abundance.
Walking back, the van stood like a loyal companion, its doors open, towels and beach bags spilling out onto the sand. A small figure sat nearby, hands buried in the warm grains, digging idly, lost in quiet thought. Behind her, pastel-colored beach houses lined the dunes, their raised foundations standing against time and tide, watching over the beach as they had for years.
The beach stretched endlessly in both directions, a vast ribbon of sand meeting the restless churn of the Gulf. A few tents dotted the shoreline, their fabric rippling in the steady coastal breeze. A truck sat parked near the dunes, its owner likely wading through the waves, fishing pole anchored into the sand. Further out, kites danced against the sky, their bright colors punctuating the deep blue expanse.
The water shimmered under the afternoon sun, a palette of browns and blues shifting with the wind. A single seagull rode the updrafts, soaring effortlessly above the surf, scanning for an easy meal. Near the water’s edge, footprints trailed in the damp sand, disappearing as the tide crept forward, each wave erasing the evidence of our presence.
Jennie ran ahead of us, barefoot, arms swinging, the wind pressing against her small frame. The sky and sea stretched endlessly before her, and for a moment, she looked as if she might run straight into the horizon, becoming one with the waves. The sand beneath her feet was cool in some places, hot in others, a shifting landscape that moved with every step.
This was the final pause before the road turned homeward. The last golden hours when the sun hung low, painting the sky in soft pastels, where the ocean’s song played its endless tune, and where, for a brief moment, the world felt as if it had paused just for us.
The sun hung lower at the cabin, casting long golden shadows across the marshland. The kids had discovered the sprinkler system near the patio, and the rhythmic bursts of water were an unexpected delight. Laughter echoed across the open field as they dodged and danced through the spray, soaking their swimsuits all over again. The scene was almost absurd in its simplicity—after an ocean, after a pool, after hours under the sun, here they were, chasing water droplets in the grass as if it were the grandest adventure of the day.
The afternoon stretched into evening, the light softening but the heat remaining stubbornly in place. The kites that had danced earlier above the seawall had disappeared, leaving only the slow, rhythmic hum of the cicadas. The weight of the trip, the miles we had traveled, the countless sights we had seen—it all lingered just below the surface, waiting. But for now, the only thing that mattered was the next slow drift across the pool, the lingering taste of salt in the air, and the warmth of the sun still pressing against our skin.
As the girls continued their dips in the pool in view of the cabin, Diem and I began the arduous task of packing the van. It wouldn’t be our earliest departure on the trip, but the last thing I want to do is pack the van at 4 a.m. The goal was to grab any blankets and basic toiletries we used and be on the road by 7. Everything else was packed away. Evening crept in with an unhurried grace as we packed, painting the sky in warm hues. The fire pit remained empty, the chairs around it waiting for stories that wouldn’t be told tonight. The wind carried the scent of salt and sun-warmed earth, a final reminder that this place, for all its simple beauty, was only ours for a little while.
The grackle strutted through the fading light, its glossy black feathers catching the last golden rays of the sun. Its sharp eyes darted across the grass, watching, waiting, as if it knew this was the last evening we would spend here. Another perched high on the rooftop silhouetted against the soft blue sky, its presence both indifferent and omnipresent. These birds had been our noisy companions all day, moving through the campground with the same casual ease as the wind off the Gulf.
The grackles were everywhere, filling the campground with their sharp cries and incessant chatter, their voices rising and falling like an untamed chorus. They perched on railings, strutted across the pavement with cocky confidence, and gathered in small groups, arguing loudly over scraps of food or prime roosting spots. Their glossy black feathers shimmered in the fading light, flashing hints of deep blue and purple as if dipped in oil. No moment of quiet went unchallenged—their calls pierced the air, a chaotic soundtrack to the humid evening. Even as the sun melted into the marsh, they remained, their silhouettes cutting against the darkening sky, unwilling to let the world settle into silence.
As the sun dipped lower, we gathered on the patio, the Adirondack chairs still warm from the day’s heat. The air had softened, taking on the earthy scent of the marsh, the salt of the sea. Someone leaned against the table, chin resting on folded arms, drinking in the last light like it was something to be savored, something fleeting.
The horizon burned in brilliant hues of orange and crimson, bleeding into the marshland, stretching endlessly beyond the quiet fields. Shadows lengthened, and for a long moment, we simply sat—watching, listening. This was the kind of sunset that asked nothing of us, that filled the space between words, between thoughts, between all the miles we had traveled and the ones still waiting ahead.
The last light faded into deep blue, the first stars blinking into existence. A plate with the remnants of dessert sat abandoned on the table. The fire pit remained cold, untouched. There was no need for anything more. The sky, the land, the hush of the wind—all of it was enough. Tomorrow, we would leave Galveston behind. But for now, we let the darkness settle in, carrying the weight of one last perfect evening on the road. Tomorrow, the road home. But tonight, just one more breath of sea air, one more laugh carried by the wind, one more moment at the edge of the world.
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