Yesterday, we nixed our chiropractic visits (no appointment necessary) at the eleventh hour and took the dog to the beach – a stroke of spontaneity for which my husband is famous and I am not. The Jersey shore in March is not always where you want to be, but yesterday was a gem of a day after a week of overcast skies and frigid temperatures. Dogs are allowed on the beaches through March 31, so our chances for a threesome beach day were dwindling with each passing weekend.
Tossing a blanket, water bottle, and bowl in the car we headed out. I was excited to see how our middle-aged Ollie would embrace a new environment that was the backdrop of so many of my summer vacations years ago. In less than an hour, we were there.
Picture perfect, we were solitary beachcombers enveloped by a cobalt blue sky. Collecting shells and romping about, we walked, touching the chilly surf and warm white sand. Eventually we sat on a beach log, soaking in the salt air, the sun, the time together.
I had thought about going, and had mentioned it weeks ago, but would have stuck to my Saturday plans; I’m a planner after all. He is my fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants guy, the one who tosses a Saturday schedule aside with ease to embrace something unknown, instead.
A big stretch for me, this trip was an easy reach for him.
A beach reach.
A day to remember.