Author: jeanieelizabeth

Dominican Republic: Human Barnacles and Rebellious Little Asses

On By jeanieelizabethIn Riding on VacationLeave a comment

Some vacations are relaxing. Some are romantic. And some involve a random couple who attach themselves to strangers with the determination of deep‑sea barnacles and the social awareness of a Roomba stuck under a couch.

I genuinely enjoy meeting people on vacation — chatting by the pool, sharing a drink, maybe joining an excursion if the vibe is right.

What I was not prepared for was a full‑scale social adoption by a couple I’d known for less than 24 hours.

Kathy and Frank were a lovely couple and we enjoyed spending time with them.

Looking back, I think we were all operating under different assumptions.

David and I thought we were on a couples vacation.

They thought we were on a group tour.

We first met by the pool and casually chatted. Somehow, they decided we were now traveling as a foursome.

We attempted evasive maneuvers worthy of a CIA extraction.

After a few days, David leaned over and whispered, “Do you think they’re swingers?”

I just laughed. “I don’t care how they swing — I just want my vacation back.”

The Escape — Or So We Thought

Midweek, David and I thought we’d finally escaped. We slipped away to a small German restaurant near the resort, one of those quirky little places that seemed completely out of place in the Caribbean.

White stucco walls, tropical palms, cold beer, schnitzel, and sauerbraten just a short walk from the beach.

It felt like we’d stumbled into a tiny corner of Bavaria that had somehow washed ashore in Puerto Plata.

We sat down and exhaled like two fugitives who’d just crossed the border.

For fifteen minutes, it was peaceful.

Then David froze. He didn’t even turn his head — just whispered:

“Dear God… we’re being hunted.”

I looked up, and there they were, marching toward us like cheerful little barnacles in flip‑flops.

Not only did they show up. Not only did they request the table next to ours. They pushed the tables together like we were attending a family reunion.

I wanted to slide under the table, but instead… I ordered more wine.

They chatted away, blissfully unaware, and then asked with total sincerity:

“So what are we all doing tomorrow?”

David winced. I took a gulp of wine. Neither of us answered.

Escape on Horseback

I thought for sure we’d lose them on the horseback ride.

But there they were, strolling down the beach toward us like invited guests.

David and I exchanged a look that said, “How is this happening?!”

The ride itself was peaceful — dark, petite horses, a quiet beach, and lunch at a little hut serving conch and fried plantains.

But then came donkey polo.

The Rebellious Little Asses

I booked donkey polo thinking, “Okay, THIS is where we finally shake them. No one willingly signs up for donkey polo.”

Wrong.

They showed up. Again.

But this time… the universe intervened.

We were led to a row of donkeys, and I inspected them like I was choosing a rental car. I finally picked ChaCha, an absolutely adorable little girl with a jaunty hat and big innocent eyes—but beneath that cute exterior lived the spirit of a caffeinated squirrel. Sweet, yes. Predictable? Absolutely not.

Kathy and Frank picked two male donkeys, both of whom entered a state of spiritual stillness. They refused to move. Not one step. Both riders sat there with their legs sticking straight out, looking like malfunctioning Ken and Barbie dolls while their donkeys stared into the void.

I steered ChaCha over to David. He motioned toward Kathy and Frank’s frozen donkeys and said, “What’s going on over there?”

I shrugged. “That’s Siesta and Señor Nada. They’ve opted out.”

At one point, I glanced back and caught a scene straight out of a comedy sketch. Frank was kicking Senor Nada, desperately trying to convince him to move.

Not today, José.

The donkey planted all four feet, lowered his head, and made it abundantly clear that today was not the day.

Then, with the impeccable timing of a seasoned entertainer, the donkey launched a powerful buck.

For a split second, all I saw were Frank’s feet soaring into the air, flapping like laundry caught in a Caribbean breeze.

Meanwhile, little ChaCha was completely unhinged — zig‑zagging across the field like she’d had three espressos and a personal vendetta. David was photographing, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe…

For the first time all week, we escaped for nearly thirty glorious minutes.

Their donkeys had joined the resistance.

New Year’s Eve

On the final night, the concierge booked us a table at a restaurant a few doors down for a festive New Year’s Eve party.

You guessed it — they showed up and were seated at the table next to us.

I hadn’t packed for a New Year’s Eve party, so I wore what I had: a simple, long black cotton tank dress and a Christmas sweater. Not exactly gala attire, but appropriate for the venue.

The Final Straw

When I look back on that trip now, I think the most beautiful sight wasn’t the beach, the excursions, or even the sunsets.

It was an empty chair.

A quiet place to sit, listen to the waves, and enjoy time with my husband.

I suspect we were simply traveling for different reasons.

Some couples travel to see new places. Some travel to meet new people. We traveled because we genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.

When I tell this story now, people inevitably ask the same question:

“Why didn’t you just tell them to go away?”

Believe me, we tried.  

David was six-foot-four, confident, intelligent, and we were both perfectly capable of being blunt when the situation required it.  

Yet somehow these two possessed a level of social persistence that defied all known laws of human interaction.  They were getting our bookings directly from the concierge.

When I looked through the trip photos later, one thing became painfully obvious: this couple had somehow woven themselves into our entire vacation. They appear in nearly every picture.

Even photos that were clearly intended to be romantic shots of David and me feature an unexpected guest lurking in the background like an enthusiastic meerkat.

Before we left, they made an attempt to organize another vacation together.

David and I smiled politely, wished them well, and climbed into our taxi for the airport.

In a photo album, our Dominican Republic vacation lives on — permanently photobombed by the friendliest human barnacles ever to cling their way through the Caribbean.

Some things, apparently, are forever.

Part of the Riding on Vacation Series

Tobago: An Episode of ‘As the Island Turns’

On By jeanieelizabethIn Riding on VacationLeave a comment

The year after Barbados, we visited Tobago.

Tobago wasn’t heavily developed. It was quiet, tropical, and known for its beautiful beaches.

At that time, it was the preferred holiday destination for European men traveling with their mistresses the week between Christmas and New Years.

This was not disclosed during the booking process. We discovered it shortly after arriving.

The entire hotel was full of glamorous young women in impossibly short, designer dresses and men who appeared delighted by the arrangement.

It felt less like checking into a Caribbean resort and more like accidentally walking onto the set of a soap opera.

And then there was us. The only two people at the hotel who weren’t part of the cast.

The resort itself was beautiful. The property stretched across expansive grounds overlooking a private beach, and the food was Michelin worthy.

Had the story ended there, Tobago would have been remembered as a peaceful Caribbean getaway.

It did not.

The Dress Code

The most entertaining part of each day wasn’t the beach.

It was dinner.

Every evening, distinguished gentlemen appeared for dinner accompanied by remarkably beautiful young women whose dresses seemed to contain approximately the same amount of fabric as a cocktail napkin.

It was a trend: there was a severe fabric shortage.

Necklines ignored traditional engineering principles.

David and I would sit quietly at dinner watching the nightly parade while trying very hard not to stare.

We failed frequently.

By the second evening, I had stopped studying the menu and started studying the crowd.

By the third evening, I had stopped photographing the scenery and started gathering evidence.

I carried my camera everywhere — dinner, beach, pool bar.

The absurdity never ended, and I knew no one back home would believe me without proof.

At one point, I hid behind a dinner napkin to take a photograph.

Not because I was a spy.

Because I anticipated future credibility issues.

The Breakfast Buffet Triangle

One morning, we innocently headed toward the breakfast buffet.

Three different women were circling the same man like contestants on a tropical reality show.

One handed him a plate.

One poured his orange juice.

One glared at the other two.

I just wanted a croissant.

The Human Diffuser

David went to get drinks while I relaxed by the pool with a novel.

Before I could blink the pool water from my eyes, one of the resort’s more enthusiastic guests appeared beside my chair.

Without warning, he produced a bottle of perfume and attempted to apply it directly to my chest.

As though he were performing some sort of sacred Caribbean blessing ritual.

My reflexes reacted before my brain.

I waved him off. “What?! Eww, no. Wrong woman, Romeo — go find your girlfriend.”

He shrugged and disappeared.

I resumed reading.

A few moments later, I glanced at the table beside my chair.

The perfume bottle was sitting there.

I had no idea whether he forgot it, left it intentionally, or considered it part of his presentation.

I stared at the bottle.

The bottle stared back.

David returned with our drinks.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Just a playboy making the rounds.”

David nodded.

By that point, it felt less like conversation and more like a status update.

The Poolside Incident

Apparently, I wasn’t the only source of confusion.

A gentleman settled into the lounge chair beside mine and immediately moved it close enough for us to share an atmosphere.

A few moments later, an attractive woman in oversized sunglasses stormed over and began yelling at him.

While pointing at me.

Although I didn’t understand the language, the message seemed fairly clear. Who is she?!

I pointed toward David.

“I’m with him.”

The woman stormed away.

The man jumped into the pool.

We relocated to the bar.

Sometimes retreat is the best strategy.

Witnesses Remained on Scene

New Year’s Eve arrived with excellent food, beautiful weather, and a level of entertainment that nobody could have anticipated.

The hotel hosted a New Year’s Eve dinner under the stars.

Tables surrounded the pool.

Champagne flowed.

Live music played.

Everything was lovely.

Until someone’s wife arrived.

What followed involved shouting, pushing, hair-pulling, and a level of public relationship management that would have required several therapists and at least two attorneys.

As someone interested in photography, I felt an obligation to document the unfolding chaos.

As a spectator, I didn’t want to miss a second of it.

As a woman enjoying a perfectly good chocolate dessert, I was also concerned about preserving my front-row seat and avoiding flying debris.

It was a difficult balancing act.

David and I exchanged a glance.

The kind married couples develop after years together.

An entire conversation without a single word.

Should we leave?

Absolutely not.

We picked up our dessert forks and continued watching.

At that point, we were emotionally invested.

Besides, it seemed rude to leave before the conclusion.

Beyond the Resort

We didn’t spend the entire week observing resort guests and wondering what spectacle might unfold next.

Mornings were often spent on the golf course, with afternoons reserved for exploring the island.

The concierge booked us on a rainforest excursion that involved bouncing through the island in a 4×4 before hiking to a waterfall hidden beneath the jungle canopy.

We wandered through local villages, traced the curve of the coastline, and discovered that Tobago’s real magic wasn’t in the resort, but in the people, the beaches, the rainforest, and the unhurried rhythm that shaped everyday life.

That exploration led me back to the beach for a horseback ride.

My guide, Michael, was calm and friendly — the kind of steady presence that seemed woven throughout the island.

It was booked as a group ride but ended up being just the two of us. We started with a bareback walk along the shoreline before easing into the warm Caribbean water.

My horse’s name was Mango, a name she’d earned from her obsession with the fruit. Evidently, she pulled mangoes straight from the tree behind her pasture. She also loved bananas — peel and all — which seemed perfectly suited to her personality.

Mango moved through the water with easy confidence, even as we ventured into deeper blue where the horses could swim. Her rhythm was steady, unbothered, almost meditative.

For an hour, the island stopped feeling chaotic.

No unexpected spectacles.

Just a horse, a quiet guide, warm water, and a stretch of Caribbean coastline.

Finally, Tobago showed me its softer side.

Alice, We Need to Talk

We flew home on New Year’s Day.

As our plane lifted off from Tobago, I found myself thinking about sweet, old Alice.

In Barbados, she enthusiastically recommended her three favorite Caribbean islands.

Barbados had given me a pharmaceutical taxi and a machete-wielding fruit vendor.

Tobago had turned out to be a front-row seat to an international soap opera.

I was beginning to wonder about Alice.

I couldn’t decide whether she was oblivious to the chaos around her, or simply so accustomed to Caribbean madness, that none of it seemed noteworthy.

Either way, I realized that Alice had left out a few key details.

Part of the Riding on Vacation Series

World Equestrian Center, Ocala: Where Hoofbeats and Luxury Meet

On By jeanieelizabethIn Lessons from the HerdLeave a comment

Horses don’t overthink the open gate—they simply move through it.

What began as a day trip turned into an overnight stay at the Riding Academy Hotel. Traveling solo offers the freedom to change plans and lean into the unexpected.

That confidence wasn’t built overnight.

It was earned one ride at a time.

For years, horses quietly taught me to trust my instincts, stay steady when things veered off course, and keep moving forward.

Those may be the greatest gifts we give children in riding lessons—not ribbons or trophies, but the quiet confidence to handle unexpected obstacles.

The best lessons from the herd are subtle. We rarely recognize their relevance until we find ourselves at a crossroads.

World Equestrian Center

I had seen photos of Ocala’s World Equestrian Center, and heard the rave reviews, but nothing prepared me for seeing it in person.

The first surprise wasn’t the horses.

It was the scale.

For a property this expansive, it feels welcoming rather than overwhelming. Perfect landscaping, elegant architecture, beautiful courtyards, and world-class competition create an atmosphere that feels more luxury resort than horse show grounds.

The Equestrian Hotel has crystal chandeliers, polished marble, and beautiful horse and dog artwork that makes you want to sink into a leather chair and enjoy the ambiance.

Despite the opulence, horses remain the heart of the facility. Whether you’re an equestrian or simply appreciate watching incredible athletes—both horse and rider—the competitions are mesmerizing.

I took a seat in the Grand Arena at sunset. Under the glow of arena lights, horse and rider flowed across the course with a rhythm that made every jump appear effortless. Everyone in the stands knew those few flawless minutes represented years of training, trust, and unwavering commitment.

By day, the facility is luxurious; at night, it transforms into something magical. On the walk back to the hotel, the illuminated horse logo glowed brilliantly against the arena wall, a striking reminder that even the smallest details had been thoughtfully designed.

A Room with Equestrian Charm

I stayed at the Riding Academy Hotel, which offers the same elegant feel as the Equestrian Hotel but on a smaller scale.

My room was spacious, comfortable, and thoughtfully decorated. My favorite detail was the whimsical artwork of a dog riding horseback hanging on the wall.

The entire property is dog-friendly, and well-behaved four-legged guests seemed almost as common as horses.

Parking is free, including a covered garage across from the hotel.

A new section of shops and restaurants is currently under construction as WEC continues to expand and elevate the guest experience.

A Detour to Silver Springs

Before driving home, I stopped at Silver Springs State Park to hike the River Trail to see if I could spot the famous wild monkeys.

The shaded boardwalk trail winds through towering trees and across the crystal-clear river where kayakers quietly drift beneath the bridge.

At first, nothing.

Then, on the paved trail along the river, the monkey’s appeared.

The signs make one thing perfectly clear: Do not feed the wildlife.

A couple beside me were watching two monkeys perched just above the trail. When the gentleman stepped a little too close for a better photograph, one monkey abruptly stood, shook the branches, and loudly informed him that his photo session was over.

Message received.   

Most of the monkeys seemed perfectly content to pose from the trees like tiny furry Buddhas, calmly munching leaves while people snapped pictures below.

My favorite was the monkey who deliberately turned around and presented its adorable little monkey backside directly toward my camera.

Apparently, not all monkeys want to be famous.

Final Thoughts

Sometimes the herd’s greatest gift isn’t teaching us how to ride.

It’s teaching us how to live.

Long after the saddles are put away, those lessons continue to appear in last-minute detours, unfamiliar trails, and quiet moments when we realize we’re capable of more than we once believed.

Courage is usually quiet — the kind you build one step at a time.

Freedom often waits just beyond the places we’re hesitant to explore.

And sometimes an open gate isn’t something to question.

It’s simply an invitation.

Part of the Lessons from the Herd Series

Venice: Sun, Sand, and a Thirsty Ghost

On By jeanieelizabethIn Coastal CowgirlLeave a comment

My trip to Venice, Florida began as a meaningful mission tied to a deeply personal project.

Years ago, while sorting through my late mother-in-law’s belongings, I discovered a remarkable World War I poster printed in Port Talbot, Wales. It features my mother‑in‑law, Hannah, alongside three local women — a piece of history tucked quietly in the back of her wardrobe.

This fragile artifact traveled across the ocean, survived decades of moves, and was now in a restoration studio in downtown Venice that specializes in vintage paper preservation.

I extended this trip into an overnight stay — just enough time to deliver the poster and enjoy a little fresh seafood and coastal ambiance before driving home.

Venice is one of those charming beach towns that feels equal parts laid-back surf town, old Florida charm, and a sun-washed stretch of coastal calm.

The day started at Nokomis Public Beach. 

Of course, I turned the wrong way at a dead-end and drove a few scenic miles before being redirected by a friendly bicyclist.

My internal GPS clearly thinks this is hilarious. But the payoff?  

Warm, green Gulf waters, seashell sand, and a few hours of pure bliss.

Nokomis beach is one of those understated treasures.  It’s an uncrowded beach with free parking and lifeguards on duty. 

I sat quietly on the beach, letting myself sink into the rhythm of green surf, drifting seabirds, and the soft hum of people-watching.

The Gulf was calm and warm.
The sand gritty from decades of crushed seashells washing ashore.

Shells stretched along the shoreline like scattered evidence of the ocean’s long memory.

There’s something about the Gulf Coast that slows your heartbeat the second you arrive.

No rush. No agenda.

Just the perfect combination of warm breeze, salt air, sunscreen, and the distant sound of flip-flops slapping pavement.

I didn’t collect any of the shark’s teeth Nokomis Beach is known for.

But as I sat there, toes buried in the sand, my fingers brushed against a pale lilac shell — delicate, luminous — the kind you instantly decide is special enough to keep, even if you can’t explain why.

I ended up at nearby Pelican Alley for lunch— a casual seafood spot with good food and apparently… paranormal activity.

Which nobody warned me about.

My server, Hannah, continuously refilled my iced tea.

But somehow, the tea level seemed to drop faster than I could drink it.

By the third refill, I casually mentioned it to my server.

That’s when I learned Pelican Alley is infamous for ghost stories and paranormal encounters.

Which explained a lot.

Because at some point during lunch, I’m fairly certain someone whispered lottery numbers into my ear.

And of course, I played them.

Because if a ghost takes the time to communicate financial guidance, it just feels rude not to participate.

Sadly, the spirits and I did not achieve generational wealth together.

But I respect the effort.

After lunch, I went to historic downtown Venice — brick sidewalks, breezy palms, and that soft golden light that makes you want to linger.

Everywhere you look there’s another little café, boutique, or wine bar.

And then I saw it.

A blackboard sign outside Trattoria da Mino restaurant that simply read:

“Mino’s Favorite: Naughty Woman Pizza.”

I had to know what was on a Naughty Woman Pizza. Turns out it’s a simple, yet divine combination: buffalo mozzarella, tomato sauce, fresh basil, and a drizzle of olive oil.

Elegant. Fiery. Tempting. Exactly like the name promised.

I don’t know what else I was expecting.

But there’s absolutely no scenario where I can walk past a sign like that without stopping to investigate.

This is how road trips become stories.

Less planning and more discovery.

No trip to the area would be complete without a visit to Siesta Key Village.

I arrived with a loose plan for dinner.  After previewing menus, I decided on the outdoor dining patio at The Cottage.

I ordered the grilled salmon with asparagus and black rice. It was restorative — simple, coastal, and quietly perfect.

Driving around Nokomis and Venice is never the same twice; every turn feels like a new little adventure. You never know what treasure you’ll stumble across — like a pelican mailbox so colorful it practically waves you down.

Like most Florida coastal towns, Venice has an abundance of fresh seafood restaurants.

Even more memorable are the cold drinks with little lime wedges that somehow make everything seem healthier.

I happened upon Burgundy Square Cafe on Miami Avenue and sampled the grilled lobster roll sandwich with cucumber and tomato salad. The vinaigrette dressing was memorable, and my server was quick to point out that it’s a custom, proprietary blend.

Venice has that effortless coastal energy that encourages you to linger with just one more iced tea to watch the world stroll by.

It has a relaxed vibe without even trying.

A little quirky.
A little haunted.
A little sun kissed.

By the end of my short beach reset, I realized…

I had stumbled on the fun part of Venice entirely by accident.

Ghosts. Naughty Pizza. Unexpected laughs.

Sometimes the best trips happen when you just follow the coastline and see what finds you there.

Even if it’s a ghost.

Or pizza with questionable branding.

Part of the Coastal Cowgirl series

Coastal Cowgirl: Wastin’ Away on Margaritaville

On By jeanieelizabethIn Coastal CowgirlLeave a comment

A friend once said, “I want to travel with you once… just to see what unfolds.”

My vacations do tend to drift into the unpredictable.

I had a perfectly reasonable Miami and Lauderdale travel plan… then an ad floated across my screen, and suddenly, I’m on a cruise ship heading for the Bahamas.

Robot Hostage

I exited the Brightline train in West Palm Beach. Reserved my Uber ride and waited. 

Obviously, I missed the fine print because a vehicle showed up with no driver.

I confirmed the license plate and decided to give it a try. 

This was my first mistake.

It drove beautifully on the highway. Smooth. Controlled. Law abiding.

It dutifully stopped on a green light for pedestrians in the crosswalk… but then encountered a hiccup.

The light turned yellow.  Then red. Then green again.

I finally said:  “The light’s green. You can go now.”

A pleasant robotic voice replied:  “I am providing a safe ride.”

Cars were swerving around us. Horns were honking. 

“Respectfully,” I said, “this is not safe. You are stopped at a green light!”

The car remained committed to its decision.

It finally moved but stopped at another green light for absolutely no reason.

By this point, I’m yelling:  “Go! It’s Green!”  

The car calmly replied:  “Do you have a problem with my driving?”

Frustrated, I reply:  “Um-yeah!  You’re not driving?!”

When we finally arrived at the cruise port, I opened the rear door to exit.

The car drove off with the door half-opened and circled the parking lot.
“We have reached the destination.  Please exit safely.”

I gathered my belongings, but the car abruptly pulled forward 100 feet and stopped.

This was clearly a low-speed kidnapping.

Port security finally rescued me by blocking the vehicle while I escaped.

The car and I exchanged parting words.

I cannot repeat them because one of us was using profanity.

Adopted by the Bachelors

By this point, I needed a cocktail.

At cruise check-in, I was unexpectedly adopted by a bachelor party – and an inflatable bride.

The groom carried his inflatable companion under his arm like a designer handbag.

This set the tone.

Every time they spotted me on the ship they immediately broke into a chorus of 🎵 I Dream of Jeanie 🎵

This mostly occurred when I walked past them at a bar.

I was seated alone in the Euphoria Lounge listening to the band when I glanced over and noticed the inflatable bride had taken the empty seat next to me.

Apparently, I had been assigned custody.

My favorite bartender, Mario, arrived with a glass of wine for Dolly…. Compliments of the bachelors.  

Dolly was surprisingly good company. She never complained nor asked for a second Chardonnay.

Passengers were taking photos of our coupling. Dolly and I became an unintended cruise ship attraction.

My standard line became: “Don’t encourage her… she’s full of hot air.”

Nassau and the Minnow Incident

After wandering the port shops, I found a lounge chair at the Margaritaville Resort beach. The water was crystal clear. The sand was beautiful.

I walked to the shoreline and noticed thousands of tiny minnows. They covered the shallows like a living underwater carpet.

After years of finding myself in questionable situations, I’ve developed a simple rule:  Observe first. Participate later.

A group of young women ran down the beach carrying a frozen drink in each hand.

Without hesitation, they charged directly into the water.

Apparently, tiny fish have no respect for personal boundaries.

The minnows swarmed.  The women shrieked.

One emerged from the water attempting a full-scale swimsuit extraction.

Nassau rum punch has only two settings:  Fruit Juice and Future Regret.

There is no middle setting.

This sign on the walk back to the ship sums up my day in Nassau pretty well:

The Game Show That Nearly Went Off the Rails

On sea day, I wandered into Euphoria Lounge and happened upon a game show.

The challenge seemed harmless — Cowboys vs. Cowgirls.

The goal: create the longest line using articles of clothing.

Simple. Innocent. What could go wrong?

The answer arrived quickly.

Shoes, hats, shirts, pants, dresses, socks, belts… all became projectiles.

Soon contestants were standing around in their underwear while spectators cheered.

Then… one enthusiastic cowboy hooked his thumb into the waistband of his final remaining garment.

The cruise director saw disaster approaching.

Over the microphone came a panicked announcement:  “NO!  Underwear must stay on!”

The room exploded with laughter.  Mothers looked horrified.

The perils of never-ending alcohol are not to be underestimated.

A simple afternoon game show suddenly became an intervention.

Late‑Night Escapades  

Late‑night cruise people are a species. I felt like an anthropologist with a front‑row seat. Human behavior after unlimited margaritas and a steel drum band is a social experiment on steroids.

I skipped dinner one night and wandered into the midnight pizza station.

Cruise ships offer many forms of entertainment, but inappropriate attire is easily top‑tier.

There were pajamas. Skirts so short the ass‑cheeks were filing for emancipation.

Outfits that suggested their owners had packed in the dark, during a power outage, while under extreme time constraints.

This is the Groom. The Bachelors hid his clothes and left him this to wear. He confided to me that he didn’t expect many passengers to be at the Pizza Station at midnight…. he was mortified.

Late‑night attire seemed to operate under entirely different laws of fashion. Garments that would never leave the house on land roamed freely at sea, like feral textiles.

The pizza was delicious. But the entertainment value…. absolutely priceless.

Art Auction

The final evening, I attended the onboard art auction. 

During the preview, I met a lovely couple named Grace and David. We ended up sitting together for the auction event.

Grace and I both won a free art piece in a random drawing contest.

I selected Love Is In The Air by Jim Warren — colorful, whimsical, slightly eccentric.

Much like the cruise itself.

Why This Cruise Was Different

It wasn’t a mega ship, but that turned out to be one of its strengths. There was always something happening, yet it never felt crowded or overwhelming.

The crew was exceptional.

Michael and Navneet

Everywhere I went, crew greeted guests with smiles, remembered names, and genuinely seemed invested in making everyone’s vacation special.

I’ve sailed ships with more attractions. I’ve rarely sailed one with friendlier people.

Palm Beach Jose…

After the cruise, I took the Brightline to Miami.

While waiting, I conversed with a nice gentleman seated across the aisle. 

He was heading to a World Cup match and enthusiastically rooting for Argentina.

After finding my assigned seat, I heard a familiar voice.

“What are the odds?” he laughed. He was assigned the seat next to mine.

He introduced himself as Jose.  We talked about soccer with Jose offering his predictions. The conversation moved on to travel.

As he exited in Aventura, he handed me his contact information.

“I’m an attorney in Palm Beach. If you ever need anything, just call.”

Married. Respectful. And now a distant travel memory.

One Night in Miami

I spent one night at the beautiful Andaz Hotel, located on Miami beach. The hotel is situated on the beach with direct access to the Beachwalk, a paved hiking trail.

I met Ashley at the pool bar grille over lunch. She was in town from D.C. to host her sister’s bachelorette party.

Andaz is one of those places where you can walk out of the lobby and immediately feel a beach reset.

I moved to the beach in the afternoon and was seated next to a lovely British woman named Siobhan. (She pronounced it Sha-Von), also visiting from D.C.

One of my favorite things about travel is how these encounters happen naturally. Complete strangers end up sharing stories about life, work, travel, and everything in between simply because they happen to be standing in the same beautiful place.

We exchanged contact information, and instantly, Siobhan became part of my memorable travel tribe.

People Watching in Lauderdale

Next came a two-night stay at Hyatt Las Olas in Fort Lauderdale. This hotel is centrally located right on Las Olas Blvd and the Riverwalk where you can board the water taxi.

I didn’t sample the Hyatt’s dinner menu, but I did have a glass of wine with dessert one evening… and let’s just say… there were no regrets.

While wandering the boulevard, I stumbled into a charming café called WorthWyld.

The manager welcomed me and mentioned happy hour would start in about an hour.

“You should come back.”

At 5 p.m., I found myself seated on the outdoor patio with a glass of chardonnay and an order of chicken satay.

The hostess, Nina, suggested the patio. “It’s fun to people-watch from here,” she said.

Immediately, I knew we spoke the same language.

People watching is one of travel’s most underrated attractions.

The food was excellent. The atmosphere was relaxed. The conversation was genuine.

I enjoyed it so much that I returned the following evening.

This time I ordered the bison keftedes with a glass of Chardonnay.

Nina wasn’t working that night, but Dalia immediately remembered me.

“How was your day?” she asked.

That question led directly into one of the strangest breakfast conversations I’ve ever accidentally overheard.

If you’re reading, ladies…. Cheers!   And thanks for making my time on the boulevard memorable.

Random Dating Before Breakfast

I was enjoying breakfast at a café when I found myself seated next to what appeared to be a first meetup.

At first everything seemed normal.

Coffee. Small talk. The usual get-acquainted questions.

Then the young man started asking more personal questions.

I nearly choked on my coffee.

To my surprise, she answered — and it was clearly a flirtation.

At this point I was feeling like a voyeur. It was definitely too much information for 7 a.m.

My bill arrived shortly thereafter, and I made a strategic exit before learning anything else about either participant’s preferences.

Final Thoughts

Looking back, I remember the beaches, the turquoise water, and the places.

But the best memories are the people I met along the way.

Even the robot car that argued with me about traffic lights had personality.

The Bahamas was the itinerary… but the people were the journey.

Their memories remain long after the tan fades and the suitcase is tucked away –

…still holding a few stubborn grains of sand — a subtle reminder that the next adventure has already started whispering.

Part of the Coastal Cowgirl Series

Barbados — The Beach Ride and the Pharmaceutical Taxi

On By jeanieelizabethIn Riding on VacationLeave a comment
View overlooking the Sandy Cove at Coconut Creek Hotel

Barbados was a long-standing bucket-list island, so we finally booked a stay at Coconut Creek in St. James, a small cliff-top hotel on Barbados’ west coast.

A staircase wound down to the beach below, where sailboats rested on the sand waiting for the day’s first drift into the calm Caribbean water.

The hotel had a cricket-themed bar—a reminder that in Barbados, cricket wasn’t just a sport. It was part of the culture.

It was at Coconut Creek that we met a lovely woman named Alice. Every summer, she left Britain behind and went island-hopping through Barbados, Tobago, and Antigua.

Alice spoke about the islands with the confidence of someone who had explored the Caribbean for years. She described each one in detail, carefully explaining their differences and charms. More importantly, she made it clear that these weren’t simply places she enjoyed visiting—they were, in her opinion, the three best islands in the Caribbean.

At the time, we listened politely and tucked her recommendations away.

The Beach

The sandy cove had its own rhythm — warm sand and the fading footprints of early morning beach walks.

The Cricket Club

Cricket was everywhere in Barbados, so it wasn’t surprising that Coconut Creek had its own Cricketeers Bar.

One afternoon, while enjoying a Red Stripe, David struck up a conversation with Kevin, the bartender, about cricket. It quickly became apparent that he knew far more than the average tourist.

When Kevin learned about David’s cricket accomplishments in Wales, his eyes widened. He immediately reached across the bar to shake his hand and promptly served him another Red Stripe.

In Barbados, that was apparently the cricket equivalent of being recognized by royalty.

A small pair of trophy bats still hang on my wall. They remind me of the athlete David was, and the path he never got to finish.

Life changes direction in ways we never expect. An illness ended his professional cricket career, but he went on to earn his PhD in Physics.

A single moment can change everything you once took for granted.

The Beach Ride

Every island we visited had its own personality, and Barbados was no different.

We booked a beach trail ride with a local stable and took a taxi across the island.

The guide was an American named Chuck, and I was paired with a palomino named Nugget.

The ride itself was incredible—a beautiful stretch of deserted beach where the horses walked through the sand and surf at a relaxed pace.

Everything about it felt peaceful and sun-washed, the kind of experience that makes you wonder why you don’t simply stay in the islands forever.

After the ride, Chuck offered us a ride back to the hotel.

I climbed into his car still floating somewhere between beach bliss and heat exhaustion when I noticed pills.

Everywhere.

In the cup holders.

On the floorboards.

Rolling across the console during turns like loose change.

The vehicle looked less like transportation and more like a pharmaceutical scavenger hunt.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of David seated in the back seat.

“What are all these pills?” He asked.

Chuck never blinked.

“Uppers, downers … help yourself.”

I considered this generous offer for exactly one second.

“Yeah, that’s going to be a hard pass.”

He offered no further explanation.

We asked no further questions.

We simply continued toward the hotel while assorted mystery tablets migrated around the car like tiny tourists.

Machete Dude

Barbados seemed determined to keep me slightly on edge.

When I got out of Chuck’s vehicle, I made the mistake of stopping to photograph a colorful roadside fruit cart.

I captured one quick photo, but the vendor turned just as I was about to snap a second shot.

Before I could lower the camera, he waved the machete and began enthusiastically explaining—with dramatic hand gestures—that photographs apparently required payment.

At that point, I decided the fruit cart no longer needed documenting.

I consider that one of my better travel decisions.

Island Treasures

I always looked for unique art while traveling through the Caribbean, and Barbados did not disappoint.

I wandered into a small studio filled with beautiful hand‑dyed batiks, each one more vibrant than the last.

I purchased three batiks, and this colorful fish still hangs on my wall today — a little burst of island color that never lost its magic.


The Island and I had Words

Barbados was lovely.

The beaches were beautiful. The people were welcoming. 

But everywhere I turned, some new form of chaos seemed to be waiting.

At some point, I concluded that Barbados and I simply weren’t in sync.

The island was trying very hard to provide a relaxing Caribbean vacation.

The Final Verdict: Barbados failed to make the repeat list.

We mutually agreed to give it a few years and see other people.

Part of the Riding on Vacation Series


Coastal Cowgirl: Naples, Florida

On By jeanieelizabethIn Coastal CowgirlLeave a comment

When I first moved to Florida in May, 2022, I lived in an apartment while I searched for my new home. I explored the state like a woman who had been handed a map, a full tank of gas, and absolutely no reason to stay home.

Every week brought another town, another “maybe I live here now” moment. In each place, I explored what life might look like there—but most importantly, I evaluated riding options, boarding stables for Rosie, and nearby hiking trails.

I began on the Gulf Coast in Naples—the polished, palm-lined, rosé-at-lunch version of Florida.

Naples offered everything I needed for a soft landing: beaches, shopping, and the kind of Gulf breezes that make you forget you once survived life in the Sonoran Desert.

When I relocated from Phoenix, I traded blazing, bone-dry heat for something softer—still hot but wrapped in humidity.

I grew up on the East Coast, so the air here felt more like home than anything the desert ever offered.

Life Beneath the Flight Path

I stayed at the Hyatt House on 5th Avenue, perfectly positioned along the Gordon River Marina and walking distance to Tin City. It was the ideal base.

Well… ideal except for one tiny detail.

The room I booked overlooked the river from the back of the hotel—which, as I soon learned, sits directly beneath the flight path for Naples Airport.

One afternoon, I was sitting on my balcony, relaxing like a woman who had finally found her Florida calm. The sky was blue, the air was warm, the river was quiet…

And then— a loud whoosh overhead.

A jet came over so low I felt like I could read the pilot’s name tag.

The first time it happened, I didn’t just flinch—I instinctively ducked.  That first one spooked me harder than a horse encountering a plastic grocery bag.

Still, Naples had me hooked.

A Coastal Cowgirl Needs a Horse

No Florida chapter of mine would be complete without a horseback ride, so I found a local stable and joined a group trail ride through the wooded, sandy paths of Golden Gate Estates.

The horses were steady, the guide was friendly, and the trails felt like stepping into a quieter, wilder version of Naples.

It was the perfect blend of coastal and cowgirl—palm trees, pine flatwoods, and the soft thud of hooves on sugar sand.

As I drove through Golden Gate Estates, I caught myself daydreaming—the kind of daydream where you buy a few acres, build a barndominium, and give your horse the kind of at-home life that makes both of you happy.

Then reality arrived in the form of a single word: Hurricanes.

At the time, I had absolutely no hurricane experience.

The last thing I wanted was to find myself trying to evacuate a horse while half of South Florida attempted to leave at the same time.

I had evacuated horses ahead of a wildfire in Arizona. But I knew those roads and it wasn’t a mass exodus.

Standing in Golden Gate Estates, I realized I wasn’t ready to repeat that experience with hurricanes.

That was the moment I knew Naples—and other beach communities—could be my escape, my coastal reset, but not my home base.

So I stayed in Central Florida, where hurricanes remain a possibility but the logistics are kinder, and I let the coasts become my playground instead of my responsibility.

Hiking the Wild Side of Naples

Every place I’ve lived, I’ve adjusted my riding and hiking to the local terrain.

Delaware and the Jersey Shore offered parks and long beach walks. Arizona traded shade for red rock, elevation gains, and desert washes. Florida introduced me to mangroves, pine flatwoods, and wetlands.

The terrain changed; the daily mileage simply found a new backdrop.

As an avid hiker, I normally cover six to eight miles a day, six days a week, so Naples’ trails and boardwalks were an easy invitation.

I relied heavily on the AllTrails app to help me find routes that wouldn’t leave me lost, isolated, or starring in a local news segment.

My first hike was the Gordon River Greenway, a peaceful 2.8-mile out-and-back trail combining paved pathways and elevated boardwalks through mangroves and shaded wetlands.

From there, I ventured into Florida’s largest state park: Fakahatchee Strand Preserve.

The Big Cypress Bend Boardwalk stretches 2,500 feet through spectacular swamp scenery before ending at an observation deck overlooking an alligator pond.

It’s the kind of place where you half expect a nature documentary narrator to emerge from the trees.

I also hiked a section of the Florida Trail along East Main Tram, an easy four-mile out-and-back route following former logging roads.

Parts were muddy but manageable, and thanks to the wisdom of previous hikers posting on AllTrails, I wore waterproof boots instead of discovering the mud the hard way.

Tin City After Dark

No Naples visit would be complete without a stop at Tin City, conveniently located within walking distance of the Hyatt.

The shops were fun. The waterfront was beautiful.

But the real entertainment arrived after dark.

One evening, as I dined on the open-air deck at Riverwalk, a party boat returned to the dock carrying passengers who were enthusiastically singing to the music.

They were blissfully happy, rum-punch powered, and ready to toast anything that wasn’t nailed down.

My favorite was the final passenger to leave the boat.

She was still dancing to music that no longer existed.

The crew attempted to guide her down the gangway.

One even tried dancing her toward the exit.

Eventually she was escorted safely onto the dock, where she continued performing for the benefit of waterfront diners.

Last I saw, she was twirling toward the nearest bar like an adorable dancing diva.

Not Every Place Is Meant to Be Home

The best part of Naples has always been its effortless elegance.

The soft Gulf light and the calm water. The breezes that feel like an exhale.

Naples never seems to demand attention. It simply exists, confident in what it is, and that quiet existence is part of its charm.

When I was searching for a place to call home, Naples taught me something important: not every place you love is meant to be where you live.

Some places become escapes, others become the places you return to when life feels too loud.

Every visit reminds me why it remains one of my favorite coastal escapes—a place where nature, adventure, and coastal elegance come together effortlessly.

Part of the Coastal Cowgirl Series

Swimming with Horses in Palma Sola Bay… Anna Maria Island

On By jeanieelizabethIn Riding on VacationLeave a comment
📷: Ava Schultz Photography

I retired my personal horse, Rosie, from strenuous riding in her early twenties. An abused rescue, she had earned an early retirement package.

I would still hop on her bareback for a slow wander around the property, but I no longer “rode” her — not in the walk‑trot‑canter, trail‑miles sense of the word. To me, that defines riding.

What we did in her later years was simply keep each other company. Rosie was perfectly content in retirement; her only real complaint in Florida was the relentless swarm of flies who seemed personally offended by her existence.

Like most of my friends with senior horses, I shifted to riding rentals — the natural extension of staying in the saddle while honoring the limits of a horse who had already given so much.

So when I happened upon Florida Beach Horses on social media, I knew this would be my next riding adventure. 

I spent the night in Lakewood Ranch and drove to the meet location the next morning with the kind of nervous excitement that usually means you’re about to do something memorable.

As I crossed the causeway into Anna Maria Island, I spotted the horses hitched under a shade tree, tails flicking lazily in the warm air.

I parked in a sandy pull-off, checked in, and was paired with Buddy — mildly irritated, fully opinionated, but tolerant because he loved his job.

The Sand & Surf Ride began along the shoreline, each horse and rider moving in quiet formation. The bay lay still as glass, the sun already spilling gold across the water, while Buddy carried me forward with the calm certainty of a familiar task.

📷: Ava Schultz Photography

Back at the start, the saddles came off for the surf portion. The water was chest‑deep and the guides easily walked the horses out to a sandbar where we formed a circle. One by one, we stood on our horses’ backs, the bay glittering around us.

Then came the skiing.

📷: Ava Schultz Photography

We slipped into the water and grabbed hold of the horse’s tails as the guides mounted up.  A reminder floated back to secure my suit, though there was no real concern —only trust, and the strangeness of what was about to happen.

And then Buddy moved.

A surge and suddenly I was being drawn through the bay like a thread through silk—four hooves carving motion through water, turning effort into flight.

Next came swimming on horseback, in water just deep enough for the horses to lift into that slow, powerful float. They knew their job and followed the lead horse willingly. You don’t fall off a horse riding bareback in water — the buoyancy keeps you right where you need to be.

The final stretch was a race to shore. As we approached the shallows, Buddy started blowing bubbles like a mischievous child. It made me smile. His ears were pinned so I couldn’t tell if he was pleased the swim was over—or quietly disappointed it had to end.

📷: Ava Schultz Photography

The sun was shining. The water was warm and salty. It was the kind of day that doesn’t feel real until it becomes memory.

📷: Ava Schultz Photography

After the ride, I continued across the causeway still thinking about Buddy — the steady rhythm of his stride through the water.  It was a feeling — a quiet confidence a rider earns from a new experience.

I pulled straight into the parking lot at Holmes Beach and settled on the outdoor patio of Anna Maria Beach Café with fish tacos and an iced tea.  

Holmes Beach has soft, powdery white sand and shallow, turquoise waters. The beach spans seven acres of dunes, palms, and sea grapes. 

One unexpected thing I noticed on Anna Maria Island — and eventually became slightly obsessed with — was the island’s apparent competition for most entertaining mailbox.

Not normal mailboxes.
AMI mailboxes.

Dolphins leaping from posts.
Manatees the size of small kayaks.
Flamingos balancing beside driveways like permanent lawn guests.

Some looked hand-painted. Others looked like full art projects someone absolutely took too seriously in the best possible way.

At some point I realized the mailboxes were quietly telling the story of the island itself — playful, sun-faded, slightly eccentric, and completely unconcerned with being fashionable.

I started photographing them the way other people photograph sunsets.

Because on Anna Maria Island, apparently even the mailboxes have beach personalities.

Dinner was at the Sandbar Restaurant known for its toes-in-sand dining and sweeping gulf views. 

I was intrigued by The Doctor’s Office, a clever restaurant and bar in Holmes Beach.  I decided to stop in for a glass of recovery — a virgin Hibiscus Pom Margarita.

The bartender referred to my order as a ‘placebo’.  This is one of the most entertaining restaurant concepts on the island. The menu reads like a medical chart written by someone with a sense of humor: Culinary Prescriptions, First Aid, Initial Consultations, Taco Therapy, and Emergency Care.

The interior was eclectic — part vintage doctor’s office, part moody cocktail bar.  There was an eye chart on a ledge and a skeleton with a pink stethoscope propped in a corner, looking like he’d stayed for one drink too many.

Shopping on the island feels the same way — relaxed, local, and diverse — with little boutiques scattered throughout Anna Maria Island and along Bridge Street, where wandering around somehow becomes part of the entertainment.

Outside one boutique, exuberant parrots greeted me with a full‑volume chorus of chatter and whistles — tiny, feathered chatterboxes gossiping like they were on their third mimosa and absolutely living for the drama. 

That’s part of AMI’s charm.

Not flashy. Not manufactured. Just beach bars, quirky restaurants, bicycles leaning against fences, and a community that collectively decided life works better in sandals.

Apparently the cure for an ordinary week involves one beach horse, fish tacos, mailbox flamingos, and a prescription for Taco Therapy.

Part of the Riding on Vacation Series

Devil’s Bridge — Sedona, Arizona

On By jeanieelizabethIn HikingLeave a comment

There are places in this world that feel borrowed from another planet, and Sedona is one of them.

The red rocks rise like ancient cathedrals — glowing at sunrise, burning at sunset, shifting from rust to fire to deep wine as the light moves across the canyon walls.

For years, I was lucky enough to live just forty minutes away — close enough to disappear into Sedona whenever life needed a reset.

Some days that meant coffee beneath the cottonwoods.

Other days, it meant wandering through galleries at Tlaquepaque Village or the downtown shops along 89A.

But sometimes, it meant hiking Devil’s Bridge.

Not because it was the hardest or the longest, but because it always felt a little sacred.

The Hike

The best time to go is during the cooler months. I went for my birthday in October — crisp mornings, golden afternoons, and fewer crowds (though there are always crowds).

Most hikers start from the Mescal Trailhead, but I preferred Dry Creek for the more direct route. The hike is 4.6 miles RT from the paved lot. If your vehicle can handle off-road driving, continue down the unpaved road until large rocks prevent further access. From there, it’s about 1 mile to the trailhead.

The first stretch is a wide, rocky path shared with mountain bikers — scenic hiking with occasional survival instincts. Keep your ears open. They come fast.

Once the route merges with the official Devil’s Bridge Trail, everything changes. The terrain steepens. The trail narrows.

Smooth dirt becomes uneven rock and natural stone steps.

The elevation gain is only around 400 feet, but Sedona’s dry desert air makes every incline feel a little steeper.

And then the landscape starts showing off — red cliffs, scattered pines, endless sky.

After the first major trail sign, the climb begins in earnest. A few sets of steep rock stairs lead you to the classic viewpoint you’ve seen in photos a hundred times.

And there it is: Devil’s Bridge stretching across open canyon, with hikers waiting patiently for their turn.

It’s wider than it looks in pictures, but it still commands your full attention. Risky photo ops are… unwise.

But honestly? The hike isn’t about the bridge. It’s about the feeling when you get there.

The Moment

That final stretch before the arch changes people.

The trail hugs the rock wall just enough to remind you there’s a drop beside you — not terrifying, just enough to make you aware of every step.

You turn the corner and there it is — the arch, suspended over open sky, with a line of dusty hikers waiting their turn. Phones out. Cameras ready. Strangers cheering for strangers.

Honestly, that might be my favorite part.

I finally stepped onto the arch with the wind brushing my face and the canyon opening beneath me. I lifted into my pose — one foot grounded, one leg raised — and for a moment everything went quiet.

Someone cheered. Someone snapped a photo. And I walked back feeling a little taller than when I started.

The Reward Afterward

The best hikes end with good food.

For me, that was always Indian Gardens Café & Market in Oak Creek Canyon — coffee, homemade soup, and a Mediterranean salad under the shade trees. Everything tastes better when you’ve earned it.

There’s something about Sedona that quiets the noise of the world.

Somewhere between the canyon silence and the endless sky, you remember what it feels like to simply exist inside a moment instead of rushing through it.

Part of the Hiking Series

The Girl With the Pink Surfboard

On By jeanieelizabethIn ReflectionsLeave a comment

At five o’clock, after the lifeguards climbed down from their stands and tourists dragged their coolers off the sand, the beach finally belonged to us.

That’s when we paddled out.

I was the girl with the pink surfboard.

Not because pink was fashionable—it wasn’t. The board had sat unsold at Kona Surf Shop for so long it practically looked abandoned. But the moment I saw it leaning against the rack, I knew it belonged to me.

Long before mountain trails, desert hikes, or red rock canyons, there was Wildwood Crest.

That’s where my love of moving through the world began.

Growing up at the Jersey Shore meant living between two worlds—the ocean on one side, the bay and Sunset Lake on the other. Close enough to smell saltwater no matter which way the wind blew.

Some of my best memories were born there.

Sunset Lake was its own universe: crabbing off the pier, water skiing across the bay, sunfish sailboats skimming over water that turned gold in the evening. Entire days shaped by tides, weather, and whatever adventure sounded fun at the moment.

Life wasn’t perfect. But it felt free.

Dodging the tram car on the boardwalk was its own kind of dance — a mix of timing, instinct, and luck. The boardwalk was alive: music spilling from arcades, chatter drifting from bars, tourists and locals moving in all directions.

Boardwalk or beach, it was hiking—the terrain never mattered, just the freedom of moving under your own power.

Surfing was different.

I learned to surf goofy foot—right foot forward—which made perfect sense for someone who’s been directionally challenged in nearly every aspect of life. Of course, I surfed backwards.

Eventually, I graduated from the pink board to a custom surfboard—orange with a navy pinstripe and white deck—the kind of board that made me feel like I truly belonged out there.

The pink board was passed down to my younger brother, Joe, and sister, Janice.

I teased Joe about surfing on a pink “girl board.” He just shrugged. “Whatever. It works.”

That was Joe. Quiet, easygoing, completely unbothered by things that didn’t matter.

Sandwiched between two sisters, he spent most of his time rescuing us without making a big deal about it.

Some friends pick up where they left off… others end with summer. Alice was an ending. She borrowed my pink board, spent hours in our basement shooting pool, laughing, lingering in the heat of long summer days. By fall, she was gone, and the season — along with her — had slipped away.

The cute little pink surfboard had seen it all — wax, salt, duct tape, and a dozen beginners finding their footing.

Our summer home was a gathering place. Sandy towels hung everywhere. Sun-faded boards leaned in corners. The smell of surf wax and salt air was permanently embedded in everything we owned.

We often hung out at the Surf Shack with Zoo-Man, Zoo, for short. We practiced sliding down a longboard propped against the wooden shack while he coached.

Back then, the beach wasn’t a destination. It was simply part of life.

It had its own rhythm: morning quiet, afternoon dancing in the sand, and early‑evening surfing.

Long before hiking trails, there were morning walks on the beach from Preston Avenue to Diamond Beach and the jetty—barefoot through wet sand while cold foam chased my ankles.

The early morning beach belonged to surfers, fishermen, runners, locals—the ones who showed up before the world got loud.

There was almost always a fisherman standing alone in the low surf, casting into waves that barely seemed awake.

By noon, we’d wander down the beach to the Barefoot Bar. The Diamond Beach Barefoot Bar was its own little world — live music drifting across the sand, barefoot people dancing near the surf, plastic cups in hand, and the warm Jersey air carrying that intoxicating feeling that summer might somehow last forever.

At the time, I didn’t realize those walks were quietly teaching me a map I would follow for the rest of my life. Not in mountains. Not in deserts. But here—in the rhythm of moving forward.

After hiking mountains, national parks, and traveling far and wide, part of me still returns…

To the ocean.
To Sunset Lake.
To long beach walks.
To the intoxicating freedom of being young at the Jersey Shore before adulthood scattered everyone in different directions.

And to the girl with the pink surfboard—long before I realized I was already learning how to wander.

Part of the Hiking Series