A home on the beach cannot be measured by the square footage, the expense of the furniture within, or the proximity to the waters edge. It cannot be measured by the amount of bedrooms inside or the extravagance of the marble countertops the kitchen is instilled with. Whether it’s a swanky mansion on the waters edge, a rugged cottage set far back from the salty tides, or a home that falls somewhere in the middle, the essence of a beach house is captured by something else.

Maybe it’s the passion of those who fill it and the faded pictures that sit on the bedside tables of generations before. Maybe it's the reflection of the sunrises that shimmer on the morning sand bar, followed by sunsets placed on God’s blank canvas of sky, trailing the never ending ocean line that fades in the distance. Maybe it’s the ocean's unfailing ability to wash our worries away and replenish us with ease. Maybe it’s the simplicity of a wave, consistently crashing, one after the other, a pattern that never breaks. Or perhaps it's the immediate comfort of family that a beach house conveys to our hearts.

Maybe it's a little of everything.

The days are never planned. At a beach house, days are formed as they go. To go about the day on a schedule would be foolish. Most days at a beach house consist of leisure, sandy feet, sunny skies, and the scent of pure salt.

One after the other, each person awakes and finds their way down to the the kitchen. Some rise at the crack of dawn, and some don’t make an appearance until the time noon hits. Newspapers lie around, dark roasted coffee is continuously brewed for all, and a scattered array of food is usually provided. Something like assorted bagels out, maybe some bacon being sizzled on the stove until each piece is juicy, with just enough crisp. Cut up fruit finds its way to the table for anyone to snatch.

Each night, I find myself listening to the melody of the crickets outside. The slight movement of rocks as a stranger strolls alongside the beach, and I wait for the rambling of the next wave. It always delivers. I feel the gritty texture of the grains of sand under my feet. I’ve learned that it’s impossible to polish the blankets perfectly void of a crumb of sand. The stubborn powder always finds it's way back into the bed, whether by a person or the wind. In a weird way, it grows to become comforting.

When you flee to your beach house, you have escaped. Your world is placed on pause, your burdens of reality can be ignored, and the second hand moves slowly to your advantage, the only concern being the passing of the next cloud. If you have been fortunate enough to be able to scramble off to your beach house during the summer months, you will understand.

Here's to you, Humarock beach.