Galveston, for the last time.

After eight days in Mexico you’d think I’d be sick of the beach. Driving up to the seawall, though, my body nags at me to stop. This beach is familiar, this one’s mine. The water isn’t nearly as blue as the shores of Isla Mujeres, but the smell spraying over me feels like home. I find a parking spot at the nearest stairwell down from the seawall and bring my 4Runner to a halt. As much as I want to fling open my car door and run to the ocean, the barreling traffic urges caution into me, and I wait for a break to sneak out of my car.

The instant hit of adrenaline from the cold, wet wind is intoxicating. The parade of waves is deafening, and I am suddenly unaware of the Friday evening traffic bustling behind me as I take in the splendor. I decide, fuck the chucks, who knows the next time I’ll have the opportunity. Throwing off the shoes, I walk down the sandy cement steps that are pitted and cracked with years of wear from gritty toes and high tides. The sandpipers flitting along the newly wet sand run with me to the water, but as my toes are overcome with the chilling salt froth, the little birds flee the wetness. A man passes with a rambunctious dog who is outwardly expressing all of my internal emotions. The man struggles to contain the excitement of a dog faced with miles of open sand and bird chasing, and I struggle to grapple the enormity of my love for this island that I once called home.