Waking at the Beach

I love the beach. The sound, the smell, the view. I love the changeable nature - the tide, shifting of the sand, a shell, a rock. The beach.
On Thursday, Mary suggested we drive down and join her at her family's beach house for the afternoon so we did. When we set out we had beach towels and a bag of fun groceries and pjs, for the drive home.
The kids swam and played beach badminton, we all ate beautiful pasta and haricot verts then swiftly dismissed the idea of going home, settled in to watch Chocolat and drank in this life before the ocean.
We took up space in a beautifully appointed bunkhouse. A room with three sets of white wood built-in bunk beds, each set with it's own Ralph Laurenesque bedding. I chose the vintage yellow, swiped a pillow from the missing bunkmate above and fell to sleep with the vague fragrance of saltwater on my skin.
My dear friend Mary is blessed in many, many ways. She comes from a big family where her mom and dad are to this day, each others best friend and romantic entanglement. She herself is quite crazy about her husband, and he her. She's interested, interesting, well-read and artistic in a range of executions. She's also a great friend with a the-more-the-merrier attitude about small and large gatherings.
After a morning's stroll along the beach searching for the right shaped rocks, we headed home along the coast highway. As we drove, we'd call each other to point out things along the way that related to our pasts or some delight we wanted the other to see.

This little trip over two days has become one of those reminders:

          Friendship is as essential as water.