We usually headed down in two cars to the beach house, a trip that seemed to take forever before you could smell the pluff mud in your nostrils, and start to see the water through the pine trees.
Our fishing gear was always tucked away in my Grandpa's car underneath the chairs that he would use to sit on and direct us with some fishing advice from the back porch.
There was a creek that was fed from the ocean behind the house and if we weren't swimming in it, we were fishing in it. My Grandpa would hold fishing competitions between us and inevitably, someone would catch a puffer-fish and he would come down and help up us take it off our line and toss it back.
Summers at the beach with my grandparents, held a magic to them, a place where time stopped, where even after a year in between visits to the house, we fell into the same routines of swimming, playing good old-fashioned board games, reading musty smelling books left on an old bookshelf, listening to beach music and just enjoying each other's company.
To be little again and enjoy the company of the ones you love away from all the hustle and bustle of the real world, to just get lost in the magic of the beach...
(Image: Found in Mom's Basement)
