Galveston, Texas.
The morning sun filtered through the cabin's slatted blinds and across the wooden floor. The air in the living room was thick and heavy, with the warmth already building inside from the intense morning rays through the large windows. The air conditioner had kept the night cold and allowed for a restful 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, and today it was projected to be the same.
Everyone else remained motionless, lost in a deep sleep. The first lay curled in the pullout bed, wrapped in a fleece blanket adorned with cartoon animals, her face peaceful in the angled beams of morning light. In the lower hallway bunk another slept in the same state of exhaustion, her arm draped over a pillow, her 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 completely to rest, as if the weight of the road, the salt air and the endless miles behind us had finally caught up with them.
I ventured outside alone, where the heat was already mounting and the marshland stirred with life. The thick and lush grasses swayed in the humid wind. Two blackbirds, perhaps grackles, were engaged in a slow and deliberate dance. One, wings outstretched in a display of dominance, seemed to scold the other, or possibly to share a secret only birds could understand. Their dark silhouettes stood stark against the backdrop of green.
The sky stretched wide over the Galveston wetlands, blue and interrupted only by slow-moving clouds, their bellies heavy with moisture yet offering no rain. A lone house stood in the distance, nearly swallowed by the landscape. 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 and clamped down on the island, and even the wind seemed to have given up. The city of Galveston, with its history of hurricanes and salt-worn buildings, wore the heat unfazed. However, we felt it in every step. The marshland outside Galveston is deceptive. At first glance it seems untouched, but look closer and it teems with life. A dragonfly hovers midair, its black silhouette 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.
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. Shrimp boats sat docked in the marina, their masts rising above the clutter of warehouses and seafood joints. At Willie G’s the parking lot was packed, and the air was thick with the smell of fried fish and engine exhaust. It was 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 and unpolished edge. The Gulf stretched out before us, a murky brown under the blinding Texas sun. A lone blue tent flapped near the water, a tiny refuge against the unforgiving heat, and families waded into the surf, their laughter rising above the crash of the waves. 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 in neon colors, their tails streaming wildly as they rode the Gulf breeze. Below, the storefronts and small eateries buzzed with afternoon energy, and their sun-faded awnings offered patches of shade to those seeking a break from the relentless heat. A seagull perched on a streetlamp and watched 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, pressing down on every surface. Inside the cabin the air was cooler, with the scent of simmering broth and warm spices and the unmistakable aroma of home-cooked comfort. The kitchen had become a controlled chaos of plastic containers and half-filled wine glasses, with a meal being prepared by practiced hands.
She moved through the kitchen quietly with 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, including 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 of soup that pulls you back from exhaustion.
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 sat a bowl of sliced mangoes, bright and 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. It turned a rented cabin into a home, if only for an afternoon.
Outside, the pool sparkled in the harsh sunlight in the middle of the sun-scorched campground. The kids drifted in lazy circles on inflatable rings, their laughter rising above the hum of cicadas. 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, in the simplicity of the moment. There was the quiet bite of fresh mango, the clinking of a spoon against a ceramic bowl and the sound of children laughing in the pool. Despite the exhaustion and despite the miles ahead, this was precisely where we were meant to be.
The heat bore down on the campground, but the day had settled into an easy rhythm under the Galveston sun. Outside the cabin laughter rang out as the kids prepared for another dip in the pool. One, nearly swallowed by a stack of inflatable rings, waddled forward with her 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 very blue sky, and brightly colored umbrellas offered patches of shade, their hues reflecting on the wet cement. Some of us stretched out in the shallow loungers and let the water lap lazily over sun-warmed skin, while others floated aimlessly, 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.
At the pool the water shimmered under a very blue sky, and brightly colored umbrellas offered patches of shade, their hues reflecting on the wet cement.
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 that clashed beautifully against the muted tones of the landscape. Jennie lounged nearby, wrapped in a towel with her legs flopped over the arm of a chair, completely at ease. We gathered some supplies and headed across the street to the beach.
The afternoon light stretched across the beach, and the waves rolled in, their white crests dissolving into the shallows before pulling back. The kids, wrapped in damp towels, walked toward the water with inflatable tubes slung over their arms and their hair still wet and clinging to sun-warmed skin. The ocean air carried a hint of salt. They hesitated at the shoreline with their toes sinking into the packed sand, watching the waves. A gust of wind caught the edge of a bright blue towel draped over their shoulders and sent 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, their legs stretched over the edge of their tubes and their faces turned toward the endless sky. There was no rush now and no itinerary to follow, just the water's slow rise and fall beneath them.
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 boy. 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 with its doors open, towels and beach bags spilling out onto the sand. A small figure sat nearby with her hands buried in the warm sand, digging idly and lost in quiet thought. Behind her, pastel-colored beach houses lined the dunes on their raised foundations.
The beach stretched 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 against the deep blue. The water shimmered under the afternoon sun in browns and blues, and a single seagull rode the updrafts 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.
Jennie ran ahead of us barefoot, arms swinging, with the wind pressing against her small frame. For a moment she looked as if she might run straight into the horizon. The sand beneath her feet was cool in some places and hot in others.
This was the final pause before the road turned homeward. 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 bursts of water were an unexpected delight. Laughter echoed across the open field as they dodged through the spray and soaked their swimsuits all over again. The scene was almost absurd in its simplicity. After an ocean, after a pool and 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 hum of the cicadas. The weight of the trip, the miles we had traveled and the countless sights we had seen all lingered just below the surface. 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 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 and its sharp eyes darting across the grass. Another perched high on the rooftop, silhouetted against the soft blue sky. 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. 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. No moment of quiet went unchallenged in the humid evening, and 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 and taken on the earthy scent of the marsh and the salt of the sea. Someone leaned against the table, chin resting on folded arms, drinking in the last light.
The horizon burned in brilliant hues of orange and crimson over the marshland and the quiet fields. Shadows lengthened, and for a long moment we simply sat, watching and listening.
The last light faded into deep blue, and the first stars blinked into existence. A plate with the remnants of dessert sat abandoned on the table, and the fire pit remained cold and untouched. There was no need for anything more. Tomorrow we would leave Galveston behind and take the road home. But for now we let the darkness settle in on one last perfect evening on the road.
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