Where the water shimmers

A scalloping story

There's this little stretch of the Gulf Coast that we return to every summer, like clockwork. No matter how busy the year gets or how many pots l've got bubbling on the stove, when scallop season rolls around, we pack up the cooler, load up the kids, and head south with our swimsuits still a little damp from the wash and a prayer that no one forgot the sunscreen.

It's not just about the scallops, not really. It's about what happens when we all pile into that boat. James behind the wheel, grinning like a boy who just got his first truck. Lily leaning over the side, already halfway to spotting her first scallop before we even anchor. Buck with his mask on upside down and Indie curled up on a towel with a bag of chips like she’s on vacation from his vacation.

The sun dances on the water like it's in on the joke, and the air smells like salt and sunscreen and something old and sacred. Once we drop anchor in the shallow grass beds, it's game on. Everybody's got their net and their goggles, and we all scatter like seagulls at a fish fry.

We dive and giggle and splash and holler every time someone finds a big one, holding it up like a prize.

James always claims he's the "scallop king," even if the kids clearly out scout him these days. But I let him have that title, he's earned it with his steady hands and the way he hums that same old rock tune every single trip.

By midday, the cooler's full, our bellies are rumbling, and our shoulders are sun kissed and pink. We pull back up to the dock with sandy feet and sea tangled hair, the kind of tired that only comes from full days and full hearts.

Later, back at the house, James fires up the skillet while I toss together something cold and crunchy, and the kids flop on the porch swing, sticky from popsicles and storytelling. We eat scallops sautéed in butter and garlic, straight from the sea and into our mouths, and it tastes like summer, like home, like love.

It's not fancy. But it's perfect.

And every time we're out there, surrounded by sky and sea and the sound of our children laughing through snorkels, I swear I can feel time slow down.

Like the world knows, just for a moment, not to rush us.

We'll be back next year. Same place. Same water.

Same love.

Because some traditions are too sweet, too salty, and too full of joy to ever let go of.