I sprawled on the chair in the family room, book in hand, feeling low-energy yet restless. From upstairs, a hum of voices floated down, punctuated by laughs and giggles. Addie and her friend, Kayla. Lydia was in her room, chatting online with her boyfriend. Kurt was at a meeting. Maybe we should go to the beach or do something, I thought idly. But I didn’t move.
A little bit later, Addie wandered downstairs and into the room. “Want to do something?”
“Well,” I said without much enthusiasm, “I was just thinking we could go down to the beach. It’s a little bit late, but it’s probably gonna be pretty down there.”
Addie floated the idea to Kayla and Lydia, and between the four of us we worked up some motivation and headed out. Half an hour later as we drove down the peninsula, we debated which part of the beach to visit. Should we go to the old fort where the seals sometimes fish and frolic? Or should we visit the state park portion where wide open expanses of beach invite long strolls?
“Well, I think it’s almost low tide, so we could walk out to Fox Island,” I suggested. “That could be fun. We haven’t done that in ages.”
“I don’t remember ever walking out to an island!” Lydia protested. Despite our detailed descriptions, she couldn’t remember it at all. That settled it. Fox Island it was.
We pulled into the lot and parked, opening the doors to temperatures in the high 60s and a lovely afternoon glow. We walked up the path over the dunes, and the beach unfolded before us. Fox Island lay directly ahead, the large sandy causeway clearly visible. Already the sun was heading down, spilling golden light upon the wet sand.
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” I sighed.
A few people wandered in the distance, silhouetted against sand or surf. Layers of mist obscured the shore line of islands and a distant light house. Over time, they drifted into the beach and then away again, veils hiding and revealing, in constant flux. Herring gulls strutted along the tide line, foraging, their reflections bright in the wet sand. 
The girls and I meandered along the beach, stopping to snap pictures, gradually heading out to the island. As the sun slipped lower, the light shifted as we walked. At times it was so golden it felt surreal, at others cooler and toned with serene blues and greys.
We reached Fox Island and the girls climbed ahead onto the rocks. I stopped to watch them and to soak in the scene around me. Their voices and laughter drifted back in the cool air. The waves tumbled and crashed and the sun continued its slow golden descent. The mist shifted and skimmed over the sand. I closed my eyes briefly, etching it all into memory, fully content and deeply moved.
This beautiful place. These beautiful girls. This beautiful moment.
How lovely life can be.
On Fox Island
view from Fox Island
The golden hour
My girls tracking hermit crabs
I participated (translate this as: lurked and wrote privately) in Jennifer Serravallo’s Summer Writing Camp for teachers. If you haven’t checked it out yet, don’t worry! Camp ends tomorrow, but you can find all of the video sessions posted in the related group on Facebook (The Reading and Writing Strategies Community). Watching the videos and responding to the prompts is time well spent.
As we walked along the trail, talking, a small pond appeared around the curve.
This morning as I climbed up, I heard a curious tapping sound. I walked over the tracks and looked down to the water and shore below. There I saw my new friend, the spotted sandpiper, whom I’d first encountered a few days earlier on the dock at the river park. It was bobbing along with its curious walk, pecking along the tidal shore line. I moved a bit closer to see what it was doing and …
And that’s when I made my mistake. Frustrated by intruding leaves that interfered with my focus, I tried to get closer. Moving slowly, camera in hand, I crept forward, determined to get a fantastic photo. Instead of simply watching and enjoying the wonder of the moment, this unexpected second encounter, I edged back along the tracks. In an instant, I knew I’d spooked them. They splashed off into the water and veered into two separate directions. There was no coming back this time.
I stayed a bit longer and watched a flight of swallows gather in the trees along the river’s banks. The song sparrow added his song to the scene, and a red squirrel and a yellow warbler of some sort stopped by as well. The beavers did not return.
The island is about 4 miles long and the ferry sets you down at one end of it. We set off to explore, intent on seeing the entire island. The dirt road sloped up from the dock and led us through towering pines and swathes of fern. Hidden birds serenaded us, darting between the trees, until the vista opened to a field full of milkweed. The scent reached us first, heavy and sweet in the warm air. Then, we saw the monarchs, flitting from blossom to blossom.
Nix the comfort zone 