I first went to the beach house with my husband to visit our friends, the owners. I have since been there with my girlfriend, my muse, by myself, and now with two of my children. I love the beach house. The building itself is simple, modern, the interior tastefully curated with art and collected artifacts. There are a few building elements that are well constructed, properly installed, but to my uneducated eye, it seems that much of the house could blow away in a storm such as Hurricane Sandy, which fortunately bypassed the beloved beach house. The beach front is where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Delaware Bay, 4 or 5 miles above a healthy, wildlife sanctuary, abundant with fowl. There is also an abundance of excellent stones, shells, beach glass, arrowheads and not-so-excellent horseshoe crab carcasses. I have seen the low lapping water brown with Delaware sludge and I have seen my toes 6 feet into the surf. It is one of those unmanicured, ever-changing beaches, weathered, renewed, humble and yet magnificent. I have cut Christmas greens from the beach and spray painted brush for flower arrangements. The neighborhood is part hillbilly, part academic, part gay, part old, but very few residents in all, and NO commercialization. Amazing.
I love to be there alone, I love to go there and imagine love, which may sound sad but it is not. I love to go there and write, or at least, go there and think about writing, all of which may be better said by I love to go there and dream. It is not my dream house, and that is under investigation, but the beach house gives me a taste of what it might be like to live the life I’ve imagined. And that is very heady and inspiring—which is why I like to write there, or at least, think about it.
My deepest thanks and love to my generous, gentleman friends for offering this gem for my fancy alone.