A Love Letter to our Favorite Place
The place that feels the most like home, out of all the homes we've had. <3
Hello and Happy Sunday!
For the last week, we have been perched up at our favorite place. It was our end-of-the-year treat to ourselves where we could decompress, rejuvenate, and come back to life. We did a little cabin refresh, but most of all we just relaxed — read our books, walked on the beach, bathed in the sunshine (we lucked out with the Pacific Northwest weather), and made yummy dinners. We did nothing for hours on end, and very rarely left our own little watering hole.
We’ve been coming to the San Juan Islands since we were babies in our mom’s belly. We haven’t missed a year. It’s all of our favorite place, and the closest thing we’ve had to a constant home in our lives. When you see the pictures, you’ll see why.
By all means and definition of a “vacation,” this most certainly is not it. There are no Pina coladas by the pool, no peppermints left on your pillow, no lounging in a bikini on a white sandy beach. Instead, we wear socks or shoes everywhere because the cabin floors are covered in sand and the occasional piece of mouse shit, and we’re convinced the floors haven’t been mopped in 30 years.
We lug bags upon bags of groceries, duffel bags, fishing poles, and suitcases into the car, out of the car, onto the boat, off the boat, onto the dock, into the cart, up the stairs, and into the cabin. There is no grocery store if you forgot hamburger buns or spring mix, so therefore we air on the side of safety, getting an extra of everything “just in case.” There’s no dishwasher, no firewood delivery, no garbage pick-up. We collab on the dishes, gather driftwood for firewood, and lug our garbage off-island.
We spend the bulk of our afternoons going on beach walks at a snail’s pace, shoulders hunched and eyes facing downward, searching for the elusive agate rock. In other words, we spend hours meandering a rocky beach, searching for a piece of stone that has no monetary value but carries its weight in bragging rights and emotional satisfaction. It’s a family affair, those hours we spend wandering the beach.
We drift in and out of small groups or walk solo, coming together to assess the agate haul of that day. For all of the “oohs” and “ahs” and “did you see Papa’s???”, you’d think we were talking about jewelry or something else of extreme value. But no, we are talking about good ‘ol fashioned rocks. And it’s addicting. Nana has expanded her repertoire to include rocks of all kind—well, rocks of any kind. As in, any rock she likes, she picks up and stuffs in her already-sagging pocket. (For the story of her rocks getting taken by security in Mexico, you can read here LOL).
As the cousins get older, we take on more of the responsibilities. Namely, pulling crab traps and putting the boats on on their buoys. The crab expeditions are a good excuse to leave the parents behind and get some quality cousin time. We blast music and catch ferry waves (safely, don’t worry family members who are reading this!) The boys strip their shirts, the girls flip their baseball caps backward, and we move from buoy to buoy, each cousin with their designated role. Some measure the crab, some throw the crab out, some fill up the water buckets, some hook the rope of the traps. It’s a well-oiled, albeit slightly chaotic, machine.
Most families space out their family reunions to be every five years, or even every decade. Well, we have a family reunion every damn summer—and every year it’s as good (and eventful) as the last. Each night, all 22 of us (parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins) meet at the cabin of whichever family is hosting dinner that night. We arrive around cocktail hour, drinks in hand, and stay into the late hours of the night, roasting s’mores and telling stories—it screams classic Americana summer. The next night, we do it all over again, just at a different cabin and with a different meal—for two weeks straight.
There is something infinitely comforting about coming back to the same place, year after year. It’s as if your body knows where you are first, before your mind even registers where you’ve landed. The call of the seagulls, the crashing of the waves, the briny salt air. The piles of driftwood that line the shore, the billowy smoke from the chimney, the juicy tang of a freshly-picked blackberry.
We know this place, more than we know any other place. This island feels like it exists separately from the normal rules of time and space—while everything else changes, this place stays exactly the same. This island is the closest thing we’ve got to a time machine. The same beach that our mom and her brothers waddled, and then walked, and then ran, we waddled and walked and ran. The same cabins, the same dock, the same trees… it all sings home, home, home.
We were talking with our cousins a few weeks ago, and saying how we’ve each moved states, moved schools, or moved homes multiple times throughout our lives. And to each and every one of us, this is still our favorite and most beloved place. The place we’re drawn back to like a magnet, no matter how far away we’ve gone.
We’d probably all be content to never leave this little rock ever again. But each year, our trip marks the end of the summer, and we all go back to our respective homes and schools. And each year, as we’re leaving, we begin the countdown all over again. Our favorite, most beloved place. <3
See you guys next Sunday! xx
Our favorite place. Forever.🤍
Generations….