Column: Remembering a past vacation, in which luxury was in little things

Ed. — From the Sunday, July 23, print edition.

VIRGINIA BEACH — The other day, my family reminisced about our family vacations, starting when our boys were youngsters. We recalled the many Outer Banks houses we rented and the benefits or drawbacks of each. My youngest asked me which vacation year I liked best. 

It wasn’t a hard question for me to answer. 

The houses increased in size and offered more amenities as the boys grew and girlfriends, wives and grandkids joined us. One year, we managed to afford a home on the water with a stairway off the upper deck leading down to the beach. It was gorgeous. Yet, of all the wonderful places we occupied for that short time each year away from reality, my favorite place was the first one we stayed in all those years ago. That house taught me that the simple things resonate.

That first year, we stayed in a small house without the amenities vacationers seek today – no hot tub, pool, gaming console or movie room. We were across the street from the beach. But we had a magnificent view of the water from the property’s upper porch, and the primary bedroom had a tiny private balcony off the side where I could sit in solitude for a few minutes each evening as the rest of my family readied for dinner. 

We ran through the house when we got there that Saturday, commenting on what we liked and choosing bedrooms for the boys. It was a new experience for all of us, being in a home that meant only fun and relaxation and didn’t reflect work and responsibility at every turn. Vacationing was something my husband and I had not been able to afford previously, and we felt unburdened for the first time in years. 

On Sunday morning, I woke to my husband sleeping soundly beside me and the rain pattering on the high windows of our room, which faced the ocean. I recall the calm I felt as I listened to the quiet of the house around me and the joy that ran through me when I realized I was the only one awake, a rare occurrence with a seven-year-old.  

I crept to the kitchen, made myself a cup of coffee and, as quietly as possible, made my way back to bed to curl up with a book. This was pure luxury. I could not recall when I had experienced such a perfect moment. I can still feel the warmth of that mug in my hands, the crisp pages of the book as I opened it to read and the plush coolness of the white down comforter as I wrapped it around me. 

Each day that week, we loaded ourselves up like pack mules, crossed the street and climbed the dune to the beach. We spread our meager supplies across the sand and built giant sandcastles other vacationers stopped to admire. The older boys surfed, and my husband, our youngest on his shoulders, strolled out into the water until it reached his chest. As a family, we walked the mile or so down the beach to the pier arcade and repeatedly played the same rusty pinball and skeet ball games until we won enough tickets to trade for a handful of tootsie rolls, plastic rings and lollipops.  

We took outdoor showers and made burgers and hot dogs on the small charcoal grill. We watched old VHS movies we found in the TV console, ate Jiffy Pop and fell asleep on the porch to the sound of the waves. 

When I look back at that time, I realize that we didn’t do much that year. Yet, when it was time to leave, I felt tender and worn in the most wonderful way.   

In the early days of our marriage, my husband and I often talked about one day living by the beach. We dreamed of a house with expansive ocean views, the sound of waves a nightly lullaby outside our door. Given the cost of oceanfront living, we knew this idea was a long shot, but we figured, “It doesn’t hurt to dream.” 

I still believe that’s true, but I also know that dreams often come true in the strangest ways, last but a moment and stay with you for a lifetime.  

The author is a former Virginia Beach Planning Commissioner and college professor. Reach her at leejogger@gmail.com.

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