Day 1046 Hold Tight

 

Bridie and the boys arrived for a quick visit before she headed off to meet friends for dinner, leaving the boys with Tim and me. We packed a small bag—just towels, sweatshirts, and not much else—and made our way to the beach for dinner.

My son and his crew met us there, and before we could even grab a table, the boys were already in the ocean, jumping waves and splashing around in the 60-degree salt water. They came out cold and shivering but happy, thrilled to be running wild and free like beach banshees.

As the band set up and the ocean breeze rolled in, we sat down for dinner by the sea. The new club has a designated staff member just for the kids, keeping them busy with arts and crafts and games of tag during the slower moments.

We should have had the little ones home at a reasonable hour, but we didn’t leave until nearly 10 p.m. We were having too much fun—listening to live music, catching up with friends, and soaking up everything that makes summer feel like summer.

Tim always says the two-club life can’t last forever, but I doubt he’ll make me choose. Choosing might mean saying goodbye to Green Hill. Sadly, the GHBC isn't what Tim remembers. In my opinion, it's become a place for wealthy people from Connecticut and New York, not the beach club for locals it once was.

When we walk into Galilee, I’m surrounded by familiar faces—locals—and it feels great. We locals often get a bad rap for being “swampers,” but this is one reason we push back. When our usual stomping grounds get priced out of reach, transformed to cater to out-of-staters with deep pockets, it stings.

Summer nights like these remind me why we fight to keep hold of what’s ours—not just places, but a way of life. Community, tradition, and the ocean air—those are the things that matter.

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