Boats with my Bae

There’s a particular kind of calm that only seems to happen at a dock—wood planks warmed by the sun, pilings capped in white, and water moving in small, steady rhythms like it has nowhere else to be.

Today was boats with my bae, the kind of afternoon that doesn’t ask for much. Just a slow walk to the edge, the soft clink of rigging, and a sky stretched thin with clouds. The marina looked like a little neighborhood afloat: sailboats resting in their slips, masts writing clean lines into the blue.

Out past the posts and the moored hulls, a small boat cut through the channel, leaving a wake that spread and disappeared as quickly as a thought. I like how the waterfront holds both motion and stillness at once—how you can feel everything traveling, even when you’re standing perfectly still.

It’s easy to forget, in the middle of ordinary weeks, that places like this exist: open air, salt on the breeze, and that quiet sense that the world is bigger than your schedule. We didn’t do anything remarkable. We just stood close, watched the boats, and let the afternoon feel spacious.

Sometimes that’s enough—an unhurried horizon, a shared silence, and the gentle certainty of coming back to shore.