We never made it to Pensacola.  I knew--when I reached Gulf Shores--that there was no need to go further.  We went to Dauphin Island (not Dolphin) and drove both East and West as far as we could go.  The West end of the island was blocked by police who told us it was under water, and who pointed us to a beach we could access--where we piddled around and picked up shells.  The East end of the Island was under water and although we could have taken the ferry to the East end of the island, there was no need--you couldn’t get any further--thanks to the debris of “Hurricane Michael.”  As it was, we had to drive through water that was over the roads due to high tide.  Water lapped the sides of most of the roads.

One thing that I learned (that was strange) is that I don’t like sand.  Period. I don’t like it on my feet, between my toes, or on my hands.  And the sand of the Gulf is like white powder.  Fine. Sticky.  But beautiful. The white sand beaches of the Eastern Gulf are the most beautiful beaches.  That is true.

What in the world was I expecting???  Was it the pebble beaches on the Riviera in Italy where Becky and Kim Larmon and I picked up sea glass worn smooth over the ages?  (Becky made us all necklaces and earrings out of the sea glass when we got home.) Was it the rocky shore of Maine, where Ken and I ate lobster three times a day--for the three days we were there?  (Ken wanted to see the sugar maples in the fall.)  Was it the granular California sand of Pendleton, Laguna Beach, La Jolla, Southern California--where my two girls were born?  Sand that didn’t get under your fingernails and stick like glue.

Maybe it was the marsh grasses of the Atlantic in South Carolina.  Beaufort.  Half way between Savannah and Charleston?  Grass on the sandy shores, full of skittering crabs and critters.  Where three of my children played every day and didn’t come home with sticky sand all over them.  I have lived on all the beaches.  They are memories now.

I have romanticized for the last fifty years about buying a small house on the Gulf to live in during the winter.  No more.  The only romantic thing about the Gulf was Ken.  It hadn’t been the Gulf at all.  That wasn't what I was wanting to visit.  My destination had vanished.