I drove alone, rod and tackle in tow, hungry for quiet and connection. Arriving at Aransas Oaks, I claimed a shady site near the back fence, set up a folding chair, and exhaled.
I spent days driving to locals’ favorite fishing piers and into Aransas Bay. Some days I’d come home empty-handed; some days with stringers of fish. Regardless, I felt content.
In the evenings, I roasted fish on cedar planks over coals, with grilled asparagus and sweet potatoes. I read by lantern, journaled, and let the night’s hush sink in.
One morning at sunrise, I walked beyond campground borders to a marsh edge. A fog layer hovered on water. I sat and watched until light broke. In that moment I felt small, whole, and deeply alive.