We stood in the sun, toes deep in toasty sand, skin greasy from thick SPF applications, exhaling deepest breaths as we spied a schooner navigating its way through a gentle wake along a shimmering, sparkling coastline.

My husband and I too had just navigated our way through quite a wake from the moment our boys were awake, but it was hardly smooth sailing.

Glancing at our joyful kiddos as they now readied their Tonkas in tide pools, it was difficult to imagine their sunny disposition had moments ago been rough, stormy seas.

We’d wrangled our boys, who in turn now wrangled brightly colored castle-shaped buckets, humming merrily.

They’d forgotten all about it. They had no idea.

That getting our sons to the beach was, well, a real son of a beach indeed.

For a family excursion so seemingly simple, packing for the coast can be a tremendous enterprise. And God knows why.

But many things seem to add up like a basket of sandy clam shells.

We overpack ridiculously, loading up a profusion of beach balls, kites, pails, shovels, more towels than we have people, all for a couple hours’ duration we’ll be basking ‘neath the beautiful blue sky at the shore for sure.

But it’s not the pre-packing alone that renders us so anxious. It’s coupled with kids growing impatient, refusing a swimsuit ensemble swap-eroo as we freshly slather them in sunscreen, as we find their shoes, as we pack their juice, as we take deep breaths.

It’s the ‘can-we-go-yets’ that preface the ‘are-we-there-yets’, the storm before the calm.

If everybody had an ocean across the USA, then everybody’d be battling restless tots as they stuffed vehicles with beach basics while puzzling over where that second swimmie disappeared to.

Huarache sandals too? How about matching sandals. But I digress.

I love the beach. My family loves the beach .

We’re fortunate to live a short drive away. If only we could pack up the van as quickly as the dash of time taken to cruise that scant distance, and manage to keep everyone even-tempered in that process. Seriously, how do swimmies and sandals become separated?

But we love the beach. We enjoy the scent of sea roses mixed with the salty air that greets us as our Red Flyer wagon clunkily careens down the sandy path lined with the whistling dune grass that tickles our ankles.

It’s our Brigadoon, an endless summer for 120 minutes, a soul-filling, calming experience in a sepia-toned morning sunshine with no worries, no anxieties.

It’s a place where all that useless restlessness is disposed of, and we find ourselves refueled and brimming with joy as we watch our tots in wide-brimmed hats.

The ocean’s brackish foam creeps up to meet our toes and test our freshly crafted moats which protect our castles.

Found sticks become perfect tools for drawing in the soft wet sand when the tide lowers and leaves traces of seashells and the occasional teeny scurrying crab.

We’ve ample racing room to fly kites in the sea breeze.

The smells, the sounds, the carefree experience likewise washes away any traces of meltdowns which led up to our travels here, revealing a smooth landscape, happy family, and scattered Tonka trucks.

And that’s our day at the beach, worth every over-packed towel, every sunscreen push back, every mismatched Teva sandal.

Because when we return home with our tired tots traipsing traces of sand, we have our warm memories to keep from those beautiful moments had, and we’re refreshed from the ocean’s reset button.

And that’s just beachy keen indeed.

— Michelle Cote is the art director of the Journal Tribune. She enjoys cooking, baking, and living room dance-offs with her husband, two boys and a dog.

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