Camping has never been my thing. I like electricity, coffee pots with automatic settings, and running water. I hate anything sticky. Camping always seems to be more work than fun and tends to involve constant stickiness of uncertain origin.

My husband on the other hand—and as a result my three sons and my daughter—think camping and vacation are synonyms. Since six tickets to Jamaica and a luxurious cottage on the beach aren't exactly in our family budget, I grudgingly agreed to rent a cabin on the Oregon Coast this summer for our family “vacation.”  Cabin and cottage start with the same letter. And it was on a beach of sorts if 62 and windy counts as beach weather.

“How cabin?” I asked Matt before I committed. “Like we're basically still outside even inside the cabin or like actually bordering on house-like cabin.”

“It has a coffee pot and two toilets.”

“Sold.”

The cabin had spiders, but also a coffee pot and running water. The beach was cold and relentlessly windy. Sand swept so hard before the constant gusts it stung our ankles like a million tiny insects. Nate called the blasts “sand devils” and cried as each sheet approached, hiding behind my legs. But it held treasures around every corner: a stream for floating plastic sharks to the ocean, driftwood logs to climb, tide pools to admire, starfish to discover, crabs to catch, and surf to leap. 

I froze under two sweaters and a windbreaker, my numb toes buried in cold, wet sand, and experienced a new level of sticky. We were sticky in a way that only popsicles and salt spray mixed with dog slobber and snot can be. 

I held tightly to Abigail Van Buren's wise words: If you want your children to turn out well, spend twice as much time with them, and half as much money. We had plenty of time to spend. Time to walk and talk with them. Time to jump waves. Time to play monopoly and not cheat to just get it over with already. Time to watch a movie with them instead of writing an article while they watched a movie. 

On the third morning, we set out early to a beach on the other side of the rocky promontory where our beach ended. A local man walking his dog told us this beach had resident seals that rested on its rocks. We climbed over and among slippery sea weed covered tide pools, and then up, up the pile of boulders that anchored the pocket beach to the north. The wind howled and noses began to run. Quinn lost a shoe down a crevice and Nate was in danger of blowing away Mary Poppins style.

Not a seal was in sight. I fought a rather bitter inner dialog. My camera is going to break. I have to pee. In Jamaica, I'm fairly certain I would be sitting by a pool with a drink in my hand or at the very least have access to tissues so I could stop wiping Nate's nose on my jeans.

Matt ventured ahead and then trekked back toward us over the rocks, shaking his head. No seals. Nate grew tired and I was nervous about the tide. He nodded, lifting Nate to his hip and we turned to begin the scramble back to the beach.

There they were, not twenty-five feet away, sunning themselves on a rock island battered on all sides by the surf. Their mottled brown and white skin blended perfectly with the rocks. Matt and I sat with our shoulder's touching and kids cuddled in our laps for warmth, and pointed, trying to get the kids to see what we saw.

“I don't see them. I can't see them. I'm cold. I want to go. I'm hungry.”

A slick grey head poked out of the water, whiskers twitching, waited for the wave surge and became a huge grey seal flopped onto the rock with the others. He took his time settling into a comfortable position and the kids watching in awe, cold, wet, stickiness, and hunger forgotten.

“They're camouflaged,” Garrett breathed.

“Another one is swimming. Another!”

We watched for an hour until we finally had to give in to the cold and the tide.

“Is this a zoo?” Quinn asked me as I rose on stiff legs and flexed cold fingers.

“No sweetheart, they live here. This beach is their home.”

“You mean they could go if they wanted, but they want to be here.”

“Right.”

“Can we come back? I love it here.”

We probably will. It might even become a yearly tradition. I suppose if it's good enough for the seals, it's good enough for me.