Grayland Camping

We're in the car for three hours, and I don't know who has Are We There Yet-itis more, her or me. We're all thirsty for quality time with no agenda, no connection to the outside world, no to-dos. We pull in and it fits the bill perfectly.


She jumps in, eagely examining our yurt and climbing trees and quickly picks up a habit of howling like a little wolf pup. "I've never slept in a yurt before!" she exclaims only two dozen times. It doesn't take long for us to make a little home for ourselves.



The beach is just a few paces away, and we hike a small trail through the woods and are spilled out onto small dunes with tufts of grass lining the edges. The grasses give way to broad expanses of sand, sand and sand, and in the distance the roar of the surf calls to us.



Mist covers the wet sand and we cover the mist with our treasures; kites and buckets and bags of snacks and my trusty journal and bag of pens. We throw the kites into the air and see if Josh's beard is as sturdy as it looks and I take a picture *just in time* before it flings away and he runs fast after it and Hadassah and I laugh full, hysterical, belly laughs. The beach is all ours and we stretch out in its expanse - our laughter, our splashing, our rest.



At our tiny home, the slow pace continues, and we embrace the stillness of lazy conversation, being dirty, reading bits at a time, nurturing a fire. Junk food dinners of hot dogs and the perfect s'mores - waffle cone cookies and sliced thin peanut butter cups sandwich the oozing marshmallows and life is perfect.


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