A few months ago, my family of five pale Ohioans spent an afternoon at Daytona Beach. The conditions were perfect: the sun shone without melting us, the water temperature was refreshing, and people milled about without overcrowding. We set up on the beach, sun-screened ourselves, and settled in for hours of fun.
We played in the sand. We swam. And I actually braved my fear of sharks and jellyfish and went boogie-boarding with my kids. I spent close to an hour sitting in shallow water with my tween, getting to know the young woman she’s becoming when she’s not too busy trying to act cool.
As we packed up, I realized I had taken only one picture. One lone photo on my phone stood as evidence of our trip to the beach. No pictures of Joey digging in the sand or running from the waves! I thought. No snapshots of me falling off the boogie board or having a tender moment with Grace. How could I let this day go by without capturing any images from it? I have nothing to remember it by—nothing to post on Instagram. Discouraged, I climbed into the car and sulked as we headed back to our vacation house.