Page 17 of Changing Tides

The rows of beachfront homes that sit a few feet away from the barrier of the dunes are an array of pastel colors with kitschy names, like Seas the Day and Conched Out. My favorite by far is the gorgeous aqua oasis, aptly named Reel Broke.

Sandcastle Cove has a beautiful coastline, but the island offers amenities far beyond the beach itself, such as boating, kayaking, fishing, golfing, and both casual and fine dining. It has established retail and unique, small, local shopping; the wharf and marina; two fishing piers, one on either side of the island; an active town recreation center, as well as a public library, andseveral well-maintained family and dog parks … all watched over faithfully by the Sandcastle Cove Lighthouse for the past sixty-six years.

As I make my way toward the far end of the island, I notice there aren’t any large resorts or high-rise hotels in sight. Just a couple of boutique hotels and affordable seaside motels sprinkled among the beach houses. None of which are over three stories in height, preserving the view of the homes on the second and even third row from the ocean.

I also have a hard time locating a grocery store. When I spot a tiny market near the bustling marina, I pull into the lot and park.

People are milling about with fishing poles and coolers. Trucks are sitting patiently, awaiting their turn to back their trailers into the allotted public boat access points. Vessels of all shapes and sizes—from small wooden fishing boats to impressive yachts—dot the pier.

I grab my wallet from the console and make my way into the market, where there is a fresh seafood counter, butcher, a small locally sourced produce section, and a limited array of shelf, household, and pharmacy items. In the back of the store, there is a bait-and-tackle shop with a line of boardshorts-clad men juggling cases of beer and bags of ice.

Not exactly what I’m used to, but I embrace the coastal small-town charm as I claim a woven basket from the stand by the door, and I load up on items to stock the kitchen before Amiya and Leia arrive tomorrow morning.

“Hi, looks like someone is planning a feast,” the cashier says as she unloads my wares.

“With no McDonald’s or Taco Bell within twenty-five miles of the island, it looks like I’m going to be doing my fair share of cooking while I’m here,” I explain.

“Yeah, we prefer the local businesses get our money. But trust me, the Barnacle Café and Sandcastle Cove Deli areamazing if a quick, cheap bite is what you’re looking for,” she says.

“I’ll remember that.”

“How long are you in town?” she asks.

“About six months. I’ll be working with the sea turtles this season.”

“Great. Well, welcome to Sandcastle Cove. We love the turtles around here. And there are plenty of food spots, including amazing food trucks down at the wharf,” she continues.

“It’s on my list to explore when my daughter arrives.”

“How old is she?”

“She just turned four,” I reply.

“She’s gonna love it here. There’s so much for kids to do. Veterans Park has a pirate’s ship and splash pad.”

She finishes totaling my purchases, and I thank her and pay before taking the brown paper bags and carrying them to my car.

I set it in the passenger seat and bring my hand to cover my eyes as I squint at the glistening water.

Wow, this place is breathtaking, and everyone is so friendly.

I can’t wait for my girl to arrive. It’s going to be a magical summer.

Avie

When I pull into the driveway, I see that the gate to the garden is open.

Sebby and his friend, Donnie Dale, have spent the last three evenings working on the oak tree. Meticulously hollowing the broken trunk and sanding it to smooth perfection so that a precocious four-year-old can hide inside safely and comfortably.

I carry the groceries to the stoop and make my way over to the fence.

“Hi, Sebby,” I call.

His balding head pops up from his tools, and he turns a leathery smile to me as he removes the towel hanging from the back pocket of his worn jean overalls and swipes at his brow.

“Hello, Avie.”

“No Donnie Dale today?” I ask.

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