We often spent a week of our summer at a place called Cottages by the Sea, a collection of charming little cottages just a few blocks from the ocean. Back then, renting one for a week was an affordable getaway for a young family, and for several years, returning to Carmel became one of our summer traditions.

My dad worked hard, but he always made time for us. There were games of basketball after work, summer evenings swimming together in our backyard pool, and all the ordinary pleasures of family life. But our weeks in Carmel were different. Without the usual schedules of work, dinner, and early bedtimes, we had the luxury of entire mornings together, with nowhere in particular we needed to be.

Some mornings, Dad would come into the room where my brother and I were sleeping and ask if we'd like to take a walk down to the beach. My brother was three years older than I was, and I remember how much I looked forward to those little adventures. We'd hold Dad's hands as we walked toward the ocean, eventually making our way across the rocks to explore the tide pools. There was an entire world waiting for us there.

Dad would point out sea stars clinging to the rocks, tiny hermit crabs carrying their borrowed homes, sea anemones nestled in shallow pools of water. I remember being particularly fascinated by the bright orange sea stars. They seemed almost too beautiful to be real, and because they hardly appeared to move, I couldn't quite understand how they could be living creatures. Learning that they could move, however slowly, made them even more remarkable.

Dad taught us to be gentle with everything we found. Mostly, we were to look with our eyes, rather than our hands, although every now and then he would let us carefully hold a hermit crab. My brother was always braver about these things. He would let the little creature crawl across his palm before offering it to me. I would reluctantly hold it for a few seconds, fascinated and slightly nervous, before quickly handing it back.

My brother also discovered that if you poked a sea anemone, it would suddenly close around his finger. I know now that disturbing these delicate creatures isn't something we should do, but to two curious children, watching something that looked so much like a flower respond to the world around it was astonishing.

Of course, not every moment was quiet observation. There were slippery rocks and the occasional misstep that left a shoe full of cold seawater. And my brother, being an older brother, found plenty of ways to entertain himself at my expense. I particularly remember him picking up pieces of kelp on our walk back to the cottage, finding one of those little air-filled bulbs, and squeezing it until it popped and squirted seawater at me. I suspect he enjoyed that part of our morning almost as much as exploring the tide pools.

On those walks home, I would sometimes find a beautiful shell washed up on the beach. Dad would let me bring one or two home, as long as there was nothing living inside. I loved having those little treasures to take with me, small reminders of everything we'd discovered that morning.

Those mornings at the tide pools were only part of what made our summers in Carmel so special. Sometimes, the whole family would head to Point Lobos, where we'd hike along the coastal trails and watch for seals and sea otters among the rocks and kelp beds. I remember being fascinated by the otters floating on their backs, sometimes holding paws with one another, or balancing a shell on their stomachs, cracking them open with a rock. My parents would tell us about the creatures we were seeing, and there always seemed to be something new to discover.

I especially remember playing in the surf with my dad. The Pacific Ocean along that stretch of California is breathtakingly cold, and the waves can be powerful. Dad would hold our hands and teach us when to jump over an approaching wave and how to move safely through the breaking water. I can still remember standing at the water's edge, feeling the sand slowly disappear beneath my feet as the waves washed in and out. One moment I was standing firmly on the beach, and the next my feet were buried. The ocean was powerful, unpredictable, and sometimes a little frightening, but I always felt safe because Dad was holding my hand.

We learned to pay attention to the tides, too. As the water began to rise around the rocks, Dad would let us know when it was time to head back. Even as children, we began to understand that the ocean had its own rhythms, and part of enjoying it was knowing when to leave.

Decades have passed since those mornings in Carmel, but my love for the ocean has never faded. I still find myself drawn to its beauty, its mysteries, and the countless creatures that make it such an extraordinary place. Looking back now, I think those tide pool mornings taught me more than I realized. They were places where you looked carefully, touched gently, and left things where they belonged.

And perhaps that's still how I try to move through the world. Not needing to hold on to every beautiful thing, but learning to notice it, appreciate it, and leave it unharmed.

When I think about Carmel now, I remember those bright orange sea stars, my brother's mischievous kelp tricks, and the little shells I carried home in my pockets. But most of all, I remember my dad coming into our room in the morning and asking if we'd like to go for a walk. I had no idea then how much those ordinary mornings would come to mean to me. I only knew that Dad was taking us to the ocean, and there was always something wonderful waiting to be discovered.